


I'll Be Your Tomorrow

by Fredegund



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Peter Parker, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bigotry & Prejudice, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Deadpool, Hurt/Comfort, Infinity Gems, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Omega Wade Wilson, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fredegund/pseuds/Fredegund
Summary: Peter Parker is Spider-Man, sure, but more importantly, he's an advocate for omega rights. He and MJ decide that instead of standing by watching omegas get treated like shit for existing, they're going to do something about it. So they create their own business that helps pair omegas with supportive, accepting alphas to help them through their heat cycles. Peter's exhausted trying to keep up with it all - with being Spider-Man, with grad school, with their small, struggling business, with being the heatmate to so many omegas that the alpha inside him is wilting, stretched thin, soul-sick at being a temporary alpha too many times to count...And then MJ gets a call.An omega named Wade. A male omega, desperate for a heatmate, with no where else to turn.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 208
Kudos: 617





	1. OA

1: OA

-

-

-

Peter Parker is leaving his latest omega client after a long, draining two-week heat cycle, nursing a bone-deep exhaustion and frayed, brittle emotions, when the power cuts.

More specifically, he’s on the elevator when the power cuts.

An old, unmaintained elevator apparently, as evidenced by the distinct lack of back-up power kicking in to get him safely the rest of the way to the lobby. No, the tiny metal box creaks and jerks to an abrupt halt mid-descent, lights out in a blink. He stumbles when it jostles, catching himself with a sticky hand against the nearest wall. He waits a couple heartbeats to see if any back-up generators kick in to get this thing moving, but the outside world is eerily silent, still, black.

His eyes adjust, a little, because he’s Spider-Man, and he makes it to the elevator phone, but it’s not working either. He bangs it against the phone box a couple times, uselessly, groaning into the silence at the implications. He doesn’t have his cellphone, because he’s spent the last two weeks caring for an omega in her home, and he can’t stand it when alphas bring their phones with them when they’re supposed to be focused on the omega. Too many center alphas spend an omega’s entire heat hanging out on their phones, texting friends, wiling away the time on social media in between heat needs. It sends the wrong message. It isn’t mentally healthy for a lone omega to see their hired alpha paying more attention to their own lives on their phones. He leaves his phone home to avoid the temptation altogether. The agency knows where to find him if an emergency crops up, and he uses the omega’s phone to organize food deliveries and handle other essential heat needs.

It’s allowed him to bond with his omegas in a way that having his phone as a distraction would inhibit. He’s more present, more in sync with the person who needs him, better equipped to pay attention to their heat cycles and give them more than just a warm alpha body to share pheromones with in a pickle. Omegas use agencies to pair with a hired alpha when they don’t have, can’t find, or don’t want an alpha of their own. Hired alphas step in to share heats, make the process less painful for the omegas, less depressing. It’s incredibly taxing – physically and emotionally – to go through a heat alone. Suicide is highest among omegas, particularly when they try to handle their heats alone for too long. Being without an alpha heatmate is simply not sustainable.

Still, contrary to popular belief, just because somebody’s born omega doesn’t mean they should _have_ to find an alpha.

The alpha agencies and omega centers, therefore, provide people with an essential, basic human right.

The right to be free.

The right to experience heats with dignity.

The right to choose and control and have power over their own lives.

Peter’s been a hired alpha for three years, now. Applied as soon as he turned twenty-one, filled up with a stubborn, resolved determination to become a part of the solution as soon as he could, too many omegas marginalized and ostracized, belittled and underestimated. Aunt May used to go to the omega centers during her heats, after Uncle Ben – after he died, but even then, even with a hired alpha’s support, she’d return home exhausted, sad, worn down. Quiet.

It’s only after Peter became a hired alpha at the omega center that he realized why.

The omega centers – well.

Suck.

His first year, he went through the main center, but their expectations for hired alphas were too lax, too indifferent to the real needs and supports omegas deserve. The omega center basically just throws any alpha who passes a basic background check at any omega who pays, tells them where to show up and how long they’re expected to stay. It’s mindless, lacking in empathetic support, lacking in common decency. Alphas there talk about omegas with the same belittling disregard that’s rampant in their society as a whole. He’d do the best he could for the omegas he paired with, but half the time the omega center would want him to leave the omega mid-heat because they double booked him, or they’d refuse to include food deliveries in the service, so Peter would have to pay out of pocket for them (because there’s no way an omega should have to pay for her own heat food).

Heat food deliveries should have been included in the price. The omega centers already charge an exorbitant amount just so an omega can have a painless heat – that exorbitant amount should include the cost of the entire heat, frills and all.

After that first miserable year as a hired alpha for the omega center, he’d felt like a part of the problem all over again. Just another alpha out to swindle omegas. Just another knothead cog in the broken machine that was life. It’d been a bitter realization, and a long time coming, to get them to this place, now, where they could offer omegas another option. Something better than the clinically flawed, judgmental, problematic omega centers.

MJ – an omega, an activist, a friend – came up with the idea to create their own omega center.

A better one.

They’d both been drunk at the time, Peter having just come back from being an alpha to a sweet, quiet omega who’d looked so shocked the first time he asked her if she wanted to cuddle, who spent the first four days of her heat completely incapable of asking for a single thing, who would flinch every time he edged toward her. She’d told him, at the end, that she’d never had an alpha who listened to her when she talked. That he was the best alpha she’d ever had from the omega center. The _best_ , and all he’d done was supply basic dignity and support.

Anyway, a drunken rant to MJ about how crappy the omega centers were, and boom.

Omega Advocates was born.

The omega centers didn’t have any competition on the market, was the problem. Omegas didn’t have anywhere else to pick. They either settled down with an alpha of their own or they used the omega centers to hire arrogant, impersonal alphas for an outrageous sum. There’s no quality control or level of accountability in that.

It took over a year to get all their permits and ducks in a row to actually open Omega Advocates. To convince a few essential investors. To get approved for a small business loan and get their little clinic up and running that supplies omega suppressants, outsources heat delivery systems, and offers omegas the chance to scent hired alphas and choose the one they want. They’ve got scent samples of every alpha they hire. The omega centers don’t let omegas sample scents beforehand or have any say in which alpha they get.

Something as basic as that?

Peter’s appalled that nobody else has apparently thought to provide it.

But at least now, somebody does. _They_ do. He and MJ and the half dozen alphas they’ve managed to scout out and hire. It’s a small business, still, modest in size, with too many omegas who request them and not enough financial backing to support growth. At it is, Peter takes on more omega clients than he probably should to keep them afloat. They don’t want to charge as much as the omega centers. It’s _inhumane_ to charge as much as those crooks do. They’ve had to prioritize clients based on their level of need – based on how often they’ve had to endure a heat alone, for the most part, and it sucks that they even have to ask that, but they just don’t have enough alphas to go around. Peter’s been taking on at least one omega per month, sometimes two, and it’s exhausting and emotional and so difficult going from omega to omega, the pull of attachment warring with the need to let them go, but it’s also undeniably the most rewarding thing Peter’s ever done.

Even being Spider-Man pales in comparison to how good it feels to help omegas regain their dignity.

And oh, being Spider-Man is a whole other can of worms.

Peter. Is. Exhausted.

Sharing omega heats requires round the clock focus. He’s with an omega 24/7 for one to two weeks, depending on how long their heats last. They sleep, of course, but the impermanence of the bond is a constant mental drain on Peter, who tends to go all-in with every omega and has trouble when it comes time to create distance. He’s an alpha, sure, but he’s also – clingy by nature, clingy to a fault. He knows what he’s signed up for, of course, and he never lets his own wants and clinginess get in the way of providing omegas with a safe, temporary alpha willing to support them in the moment. He knows the omegas who come to Omega Advocates don’t want a permanent alpha. Still. There’s so much _pressure_. He’s constantly overthinking everything he does and says when he’s with an omega. He wants to become what they need in a partner, and it’s not easy to become whatever a stranger needs in the limited time they have before a heat takes over. He’s stretching himself too thin in the emotions department, trying to be everything for everybody.

Trying to keep up with being Spider-Man on any night he isn’t with an omega.

Trying to sustain Omega Advocates so that they can keep competing with the omega centers.

Trying not to fail grad school.

Trying to make time to visit Aunt May.

It’s all almost impossible.

It’s when he’s stuck in the dark elevator that it all hits him at once. The emotions of leaving that quietly sarcastic omega in her apartment three or four floors above him. The past two weeks of sharing a heat, of cuddles and contact. He’s the one stuck in a poorly ventilated elevator, but he immediately wonders if his omega is going to be okay without power for however long it takes to get it back up and running in her apartment complex. His mind’s a whirlwind as he catalogues the kitchen he left her with, wondering if there’s enough nonperishables, wondering if maybe he should crawl back up the elevator shaft and see if she needs any flashlights or canned goods –

Peter groans again.

His head thunks against the wall of the elevator.

She isn’t _his_ omega.

She isn’t, she isn’t, she isn’t.

They didn’t even get along in the quiet lulls between heat needs. She very obviously didn’t like his interests in science or gaming or comics or – well, anything, really. Their conversations were stiff, awkward affairs when they veered into anything other than heat-talk. She’d picked him out of all the alpha scents, but Peter remembers the way her eyebrows rose when she opened the door to let him in, remembers her scenting the air to make sure he was _really_ an alpha, the usual disbelief. He could almost taste the unspoken incredulity in the air that _he_ was the alpha she’d scent-picked, scrawny puny Parker. He’s glad he could help her through a heat, glad she didn’t feel pressured or pained or lonely or sad, glad he could offer that. But he’s also glad it’s over.

It’s just –

The alpha side of him is _tired_.

Tired of being a temporary heatmate.

Tired of being temporary.

He’s considering just sitting in the elevator and wallowing, almost glad for the dark, quiet break from reality and life and obligations and having to interact with people. But then sounds in the distance trickle through, a slow trickle. If he weren’t Spider-Man, he likely wouldn’t hear it at all. But he is, and it’s with a mounting sense of dread that he perks up to focus, straining to pick out the sounds, to pinpoint them.

Screams.

Panic.

Thuds, bangs, and then –

Blaring sirens streaking through the night.

“And of course, this blackout can’t just be a blackout,” he says, quietly. Because this is his life. At least the bad guys waited until his last omega’s heat ended. Pretty much right on time. Good show, bad guys. He wouldn’t have been able to leave to take care of whatever mayhem is going on in the city if this had happened even yesterday. Or, well, he _could_ have left to take care of it, but it wouldn’t have been easy. Leaving a heatmate even on the last day of a heat isn’t exactly emotionally or mentally healthy. Not sure how he’d have explained it to his omega, either, since usually when mayhem is happening, it’s almost impossible for an alpha to leave their omegas. Goes against nature to leave an omega to fend for themselves in the middle of an emergency.

Peter doesn’t have his Spidey suit, but trouble waits for no man.

He shimmies a ceiling hatch open, then crawls his way up, up, up, until another hatch at the top of the elevator shaft pops open to reveal the bright sun and sweltering heat of mid-summer. His senses go a little haywire as he stumbles his way onto the roof of the apartments, adjusting from pitch black and muted, muffled noises to stark daylight and loud, overbearing city-being-attacked chaos. People are running in the streets, screaming and scrambling, the harsh sounds of barking dogs drowning out the sounds of police sirens. He leans over the side of the building and stares down at the streets, blinking in shock at what he’s seeing. Apparently, the city’s being attacked by –

Dogs?

Lots and lots of dogs.

Dogs of all sorts. Big and little. Dogs wearing collars, does without collars. He watches an older lady wrestle with one little mutt, holding onto its collar and hollering, “What’re you – knock it off, Spot, why’re you going all nuts –”

Apparently, people’s pets are going crazy?

He swings down to ground level and webs up that dog before the lady can have her face bitten off, webbing Spot out of her flailing arms and pulling the aggressive, snarling mutt toward him into the shadows of the alley. The dog’s foaming at the mouth, snapping at the webbing around his torso, yapping and growling. The woman runs toward the alleyway screaming for her dog, her flower-print shirt torn off one shoulder, hair askew. Peter has to threaten to web her up, too, to make her stay away, and she stays back but keeps yelling at him to give her dog back, give him back, he’s her baby, give him back –

Spot, apparently, doesn’t share in her affections.

Peter’s ears are ringing from the woman’s shrieking. He can’t blame the dog.

Apparently he really _can’t_ blame the dog, because Spot’s eyes are clouded over an eerie, foamy neon green color. He’s been around long enough in the superhero world to recognize a magical presence when he sees one. Peter webs the mutt up like a puppy taco, the strength of his natural webbing enough to subdue the mutt’s mad flailing limbs. He leaves the pup webbed to the ground in the alley with instructions to leave the dog alone like that until its eyes change color, swings away before the woman can respond to his instructions or get a good look at his face. There’s dogs going crazy all over the city. Peter’s heart is racing as he sticks to alleyways and rooftops and makes his way home for his suit, yanking dogs off people and webbing them up from the shadows as he goes. It doesn’t take long to fling himself through his bedroom window and throw on a Spidey suit, zipping it snug so the scent-blockers kick in, instantly relieved the moment his mask goes on. He can only hope that nobody caught wind of him on the way here, that nobody’s shaky camera videos caught his identity mid-leap from rooftop to rooftop.

Anyway, there’s no time to worry about it now.

Crazy attacking dogs first. Secret identity fallout second.

The webshooters are a comforting weight against his sore wrists. Peter shoots out a web and swings back into the fray. He’s sure the avengers are on the scene somewhere, probably around their compound or closer to midtown, so he heads in that direction, manhandling snappy mutts and webbing them immobile along the way. He’s swinging over the Queensboro bridge when a quinjet whirrs overhead and the air current jostles the trajectory of his web, throwing him off course and over the dark water below. Peter releases that web, thwips out another that catches onto the belly of the jet, and holds on for the ride. Or at least, he intends to hold on for the ride. Quinjets don’t always carry friendlies of vigilantes, after all, and it’s kind of freeing to feel the wind at his face as he’s flung this way and that. But the loading hatch creaks open above him, as clear an invitation as any, so Spider-Man reluctantly climbs up and into the hatch, wondering as he goes which hapless shield agents were sent to help wrangle magically maniacal canines and what their strategy might be.

Instead of hapless shield agents, though, he’s met face-to-chiseled-chest with Captain America himself, decked out in the red white and blues with his shield strapped to his back.

Peter pulls himself to a stand on the loading hatch and tries not to trip all over himself.

“Captain America!” he says, his hands doing some sort of aborted salute-handshake-jazz hand thing that’s entirely outside his control.

The captain nods. “Spider-Man. Saw you swinging by, thought we’d lend a ride. You know the situation?”

Peter nods, a little too fervently. “Magically maniacal dogs attacking the city?”

It startles a laughed huff of breath from Steve Rogers, who pauses and then shrugs, eventually nodding. “That about sums it up, actually. We’ve got eyes on the man responsible, though he seems to be surrounded by an impenetrable dome of green light? Wanda’s working on finding a way inside. The rest of us are trying to control the chaos.”

“Is it a wizard? Like Dr. Strange?”

“It’s not one of Strange’s.”

“A mutant?”

“No known affiliation at all, actually. I’m assuming he’s something magical, at least.”

Peter leaves it at that, switches gears. He takes out his phone, asking where the wizard is as he texts Deadpool to bring him up to speed, adding at the end that he should probably leave all the explosives at home for this one. The last thing any of them needs is to be seen slaughtering or otherwise maiming people’s pets. Even if the pets are going on murderous rampages, Peter can just imagine how J.J. Jameson could and would spin _that_. When he looks up from his phone, Captain America is staring at him, a knowing look, if slightly disapproving.

“I’m not sure Deadpool’s a good fit for this mission.”

Peter takes a deep breath. He says, very carefully, “He’s a big help, actually. He’s got more control than you all think.”

“I don’t pretend to know him like you do –”

“Because you _don’t_ –”

“ – but Deadpool’s a loose cannon, Spider-Man. Can you look me in the eye and honestly say his first impulse won’t be to shoot all these dogs? You think a killer-for-hire will care that they’re being controlled?”

Peter shakes his head, stands a little straighter. “He’s a dog person, so yeah, I’m pretty sure his first impulse won’t be to shoot them. Hell, he’ll probably let a few chomp off his limbs and play fetch with a leg bone… which I realize probably doesn’t make you feel any better about the situation, but look, Deadpool’s a good guy. If you’d give him half a chance, I wouldn’t have to keep telling you all that. You’d be able to see it for yourself.”

“Last time I saw him, he –”

Peter puts up both hands, making quick abort-abort gestures. “I get it, he probably did something obnoxious. He just gets a little starstruck around you, is all. D’you know he only really talks to himself when he’s nervous? And frankly, sir, it’s a little cruel how you lot constantly belittle him for it. He idolizes the Avengers.”

Well, half the time. The other half, Deadpool’s too busy making fun of their goatees and fancy cool-kid club or threatening bodily harm the next time he sees them – but, well, that’s just who he is. Peter thinks that if Deadpool tried to be serious for longer than ten minutes at a time, his head would explode from all the pent-up quips and jokes and bluster.

“ – I was going to say, he almost killed me when my back was turned.”

Oh. Well –

Honestly, that sounds like Deadpool, too. Peter groans and tries not to retract everything he just said defending Deadpool’s moral character.

“Maybe he thought you were somebody else?” he suggests.

Captain America’s eyebrows raise through his cowl. “The shield was strapped to my back.”

Peter perks up at that. “Well there you go!” he says, as if that explained everything.

Captain America remains unimpressed. “So he tried to kill me because he idolizes me?”

“No, he wasn’t trying to _kill_ you at all. He was testing out the shield. It was strapped to your back, right? And he attacked you from behind? Dude – um, sir –” Peter feels himself flushing under his mask, tries not to let the blunder of calling Captain America ‘dude’ to his face steamroll over the point he’s trying to make, “He’s been itching to try his swords out against your shield for years. Betcha he used his swords when he supposedly attacked you, right? No guns?”

Peter knows he’s gotten somewhere by the contemplative ensuing silence. But Captain America still claims that even if Peter’s right about the motive, it was still irresponsible to have drawn his swords on someone, especially on someone who hadn’t been expecting the attack. Peter shakes his head and doesn’t keep trying. Honestly, trying to convince any member of the Avengers that Deadpool is on their side is like beating his head against a wall. They’re not willing to accept it until they see it for themselves. And unfortunately for them all, Deadpool sucks at showing off his good side. Hell, Peter feels like he’s beating his head against a wall when he tries to convince _Deadpool_ that Deadpool’s good. Nobody seems to believe it, least of all the man himself.

Speaking of, Peter’s phone vibrates in his hand.

_DP: no bueno, honey buns. Daddy Deadpool is sick today :(_

And then an instant later:

_DP: but save all those doggies, bb. they’re lucky you’re on the scene_

Peter frowns down at the phone, unwilling to put a name to how he’s feeling right now. His heart’s kicked up, though, and he types back a quick: _you okay? I didn’t think you could get sick? Why isn’t your healing factor kicking in?_

_DP: aw, is my little spider worried about lil’ ol me?_

_DP: no worries bb, ill be fine_

_DP: got chomped on, regrowing parts atm_

_DP: srsly, go kick butt!_

_DP: I do love watching you kick butt on the big screen_

_Peter: oh god, don’t watch the news, they’re gonna have a field day with this crap_

_Peter: glad you’re okay_

_Peter: you’re okay right?_

_DP: I’m fine, spidey. can’t die, remember?_

_DP: but thanks for checking on me_

_DP: ill prolly be out of commish for a couple weeks, need some r &r_

_DP: can’t wait to patrol with my spider soon tho_

_DP: now shoo, go save lassie_

They arrive at the scene of the magical – um, dude? who’s standing in the center of some sort of magical barrier laughing his head off at Wanda, who looks like she’s giving it her all to penetrate through with flying red sparks and seriously terrifying resting bitch face. So Peter tucks his phone away and jumps into the action, but even as he’s rounding up rabid mutts, his mind’s on Deadpool. Who can’t die, sure, but who can sure as hell feel pain. Since when has he needed to be out of commission for a couple weeks? What does that even mean? And why word it that way, that he’s ‘sick’? Why not just say he’s regrowing limbs at the start?

Maybe he’s on a job and he doesn’t want Spider-Man to know about it.

But he’s never lied about jobs before. Not sure there’s any reason to start now. Peter knows all about the jobs he takes. This doesn’t feel like that.

But then… what?


	2. Knock Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a little explicit near the end, only gonna get worse from here folks.
> 
> But like oh my gosh, thank you for all your comments! I am just so inspired from you all! I'm planning to update this once per month until it's finished - so hopefully I'll see you all next month for more! Gonna go reply to you awesome peeps individually now :)

2: Knock knock

-

-

-

It takes the Scarlett Witch four grueling hours to penetrate that barrier.

Four. Grueling. Hours.

Peter ran out of webbing around two hours into the whole mess, dogs of all sizes wrapped up and hanging around or stuck to various parts of the city. He’s been scratched, bitten, and yanked this way and that by tiny yapping things and giant huskies alike. His suit’s down one glove, there’s claw marks up and down both arms, he’s pretty sure part of his suit’s missing in the back if the cool breeze is anything to go by, and it doesn’t look like the Avengers faired much better. When the barrier finally gives up the fight, it feels like the whole city shakes in the wake of its collapse. Peter’s gotta be a few miles away, but even then he feels the ground quake and his spider sense goes screwy, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees at the magical charge that zings in the air. It gets a little hard to breathe for a few minutes, the air a heavy, sluggish presence, green and red streaks of what looks like lightning cracking in the sky above. The three dogs he’d been wrestling all drop to the ground around him, suddenly entirely immobile.

Peter’s panting, trying to catch his breath, as he reaches down to check their pulses.

Still alive. Just – sleeping.

Hopefully.

He collapses against the nearest brick wall and whooshes out a few panicked breaths, more because it’s still hard to breathe through the magic in the air than anything else. It takes a few minutes for the air to clear, and Peter’s all out of webbing, so he walks, trudging along in the direction of the Avengers. He’s not sure he wants to go head to head with whoever was strong enough to resist the Scarlett Witch’s magic for so long. He’s also not sure why anyone that powerful would choose to use those frankly intimidatingly strong powers to just… control a bunch of dogs. Seems a little anticlimactic. Sure, it was pretty evil, probably scarred some pet owners for life – and sure, some people probably died today. Some dogs, too. He’s so not looking forward to the impending death toll. But – why dogs? And why hide behind a barrier in plain sight and watch?

There’s a quinjet taking off from the rooftop when Peter finally makes it back. Power’s still down, so he takes the stairs, every muscle in his body burning from the effort to keep going up, up, up. When he finally reaches the roof, pushes the old metal door open with a sore shoulder, Peter joins an equally roughed-up Captain America, Hawkeye, and Scarlett Witch who are all sitting with their backs against a wall, quiet and still. They barely spare him a glance as he joins their defeated sprawl, slumping against the wall beside a scratched-up, bleeding Hawkeye.

“You know, I loved dogs before all this,” Hawkeye says.

Peter huffs through his mask. He kinda just wants to go home and sleep for the next few weeks, wants to take off his torn, sweaty suit and forget this entire day, so he says, “We get the bad guy? He’s done for good, right? Off to bad guy mutant/wizard/no-affiliation prison?”

“Something like that,” Captain America says. He’s removed his cowl, blond locks matted and stuck against his forehead. He’s got just as much scratches as the rest of them, all except Wanda, of course, who’s got her eyes closed and seems, for all intents and purposes, asleep, her head leaning on the Captain’s shoulder, red hair shielding much of her face.

Hawkeye manages to raise one fist halfway in the air before it drops back to his lap, useless. “Go team.”

“Seriously though, we won’t be seeing him around anymore, right?” Peter grimaces. “I’m not sure I ever wanna do this again.”

“Shield took him into custody after Wanda knocked him out,” Captain America says.

“Think they can keep him secure?”

“Their record for keeping powerful beings secure isn’t exactly the best,” Hawkeye says.

The Captain shoots him a look. Hawkeye shrugs.

Peter’s heard enough for one day. “Well, that’s good enough for me. I don’t really want to be conscious anymore, so I’m gonna head home –”

“Thanks for your help today, Spider-Man.” The Captain looks so tired. He’s really just a man under all that muscle, isn’t he? It’s not the Captain but Steve Rogers who thanks Peter for the help, looking so sincerely earnest that Peter flushes down to his toes, apparently not exhausted enough not to feel that all-too familiar embarrassed nervousness he gets around most of the Avengers. Peter tries to wave away the appreciation, stuttering out a truly ridiculous, “It was nothing, pug-get about it –” that has Hawkeye chortling and the Captain grinning at him with what has to be pity that such an awkward human like Peter could even exist in the world –

“You’re still welcome to join the Avengers, you know.”

Peter stills in place, his whole mind screaming abort-abort-abort. “Uh, thanks, but –”

“I know, I know. Can’t blame me for trying; you’d be a hell of an asset.”

“Language, cap,” Hawkeye murmurs through an easy grin.

Steve’s eyes roll heavenward. “Also, Spider-Man,” he says, ignoring Hawkeye entirely, “You know you can call me Steve, right?”

Peter pauses in his backwards walk toward the stairs, eyes wide. “Uh – ha, right, no, of course. Steve. Steve Rogers. Sir. Um.”

“… We’ll work on it.”

“Right.”

Hawkeye shakes his head. “Somehow, this is more awkward than Budapest.”

“Call me whatever you want,” Steve Rogers says, a lazy hand waving in the air. “Just know that you’re welcome with the Avengers anytime. Missions aren’t always this – strange.”

“Says the 90-year-old capsicle,” Hawkeye sniggers.

“Shuddup, you mook. This is why you aren’t on the recruitment committee.”

“They couldn’t afford me, cap.”

Peter squeaks out that he’ll think about it before he skedaddles back down the stairs, exiting stage left before the two can really get going, but he’s pretty sure they all know he won’t really be thinking about it. He prefers helping his own community, prefers his feet on the ground, prefers not to get mixed up with crazy magical power struggles if it can be avoided. He might have super strength and spider senses, but he knows he’s no match against a third of the villains the Avengers go toe to toe with in their daily lives. Plus, being an Avenger seems like a 24/7 gig, and he’s got way too many things to juggle as it is, and he’s got Deadpool for all his team-up needs, anyway. The Avengers and Deadpool don’t tend to work very well together. No, joining the Avengers would complicate way too many areas of his life. He’s just starting to get a handle on balancing things as they are, no need to re-complicate it all. It’s better to be on call for local and/or end-of-the-world catastrophes instead of on the official docket, obligated to jump when Shield says jump.

Still.

Well – it does feel kinda nice, Captain America calling Peter Parker a “hell of an asset.”

It manages to lift his spirits for about ten minutes. But the city is straight-up depressing to walk through, so many unconscious dogs lying on car hoods, sidewalks, roads. They’re going to wake up, right? People are still frantic, running this way and that, trying to find their pets on the rapidly darkening streets. Peter limps all the way home without once giving into the temptation to help anyone out; they’re just going to have to figure the clean-up out without him this time. He strips out of his suit as soon as his door closes behind him, wincing at the sting of having to pull his suit off around scrapes and cuts, sticky as it is with dried blood. As soon as the scent-blockers come off, his entire apartment reeks of exhaustion. If possible, his own stench makes him even more tired. Luckily, his bed’s only a few short strides away from the front door, and Peter falls into it, groaning, asleep within seconds.

-

-

-

He wakes up the next day to seven missed calls and three texts.

Two calls from Aunt May, the rest all from MJ.

And when he shuffles to the fridge in his tiny little kitchen, there’s a note on the door, attached with a smiley face magnet. Aunt May’s flowing script reads:

_Peter,_

_I didn’t want to wake you – there’s casserole in the fridge! I hope it’s at least more edible than all your expired foods were. I took out your trash and expect a phone call when you wake up. MJ is worried about you; I told her you were sleeping, but call her too, would you?_

_Love,_

_May_

And then in messier scritch-scratch at the bottom of the note:

_You might not want to watch the news, dear._

Aunt May is a saint. Peter opens the fridge and peels back the foil on the lone item inside, one of May’s chicken casseroles, singed on the top just the way he remembers it. He’s hardly ever home – not sure why he doesn’t just move back in with Aunt May and save on the rent, except that he doesn’t want to get in her way anymore now that he’s old enough to supposedly support himself, and it’s occasionally nice to lounge around naked or not have to sneak in after a late night patrol. Aunt May knows about Spider-Man, of course – not much gets past her, and he’ll be the first to admit that when he first got his spider powers, he wasn’t exactly mister stealth guy. Still, he’d sneak in so as not to wake her up, and it’s nice not to have to worry about that anymore, or worry he’s intruding when she’s nesting, or worry he’ll get in the way of her dating life.

He texts Deadpool while the casserole heats up, decidedly avoiding the news.

_Peter: You make it out of the pup-tastrophy alive?_

It takes about ten minutes for Deadpool to respond. They don’t usually text this much (probably more Peter’s fault than Deadpool’s – Peter tends to go radio silent for weeks on end when he’s with an omega, and by the time he gets back to his phone, there’s about a dozen memes from the mercenary waiting for him), but Peter can’t help the nagging sense that something was off with him yesterday. Deadpool shouldn’t be capable of getting sick, and since when does a chomped-off limb or limbs keep him from an all-day team-up with the avengers? He’d have thoroughly enjoyed the chaos of yesterday. There’s nothing Peter can think of that would make him miss it, besides possibly being out of town. And he knows Deadpool wasn’t out of town because he’d have told him that.

When his phone chimes, Peter’s whole body sags, tension he didn’t realize was there draining away all at once. Surely if he’s actively texting, whatever’s going on can’t be too bad.

_DP: bad news: lost a few rib bones to a raucous game of fetch_

_DP: good news: can fit into my corsets better!_

_DP: you were fire, bb, the daily bugle can suck it_

_Peter: You wear corsets?_

_Peter: … Never mind, of course you do._

_DP: sweet cheeks, i SLAY in a lacey red corset!!_

_Peter: Thanks for that mental image that’ll never go away_

_Peter: Also, don’t your rib bones grow back?_

_DP: quit poking plot holes in my jokes!!_

_DP: that’s just rude_

_DP: meanie_

_Peter: Missed you out there, DP._

_DP: aw, ur gonna make me blush_

_Peter: I mean it – you know you don’t need to make yourself scarce when the avengers are on the scene, right? I’d back you_

_DP: staahpp, now ur makin me cryyyy_

_DP: … i know u wld, bb_

_DP: ur the bees knees. my hero_

_DP: have i ever told you ur my hero???_

_Peter: Don’t do it_

_DP: ur everything i wish i could beeeee_

_Peter: Okay, okay!_

_DP: i wld fly higher than an eagleeee_

_DP: you are the wind_

_Peter: Am I gonna have to read the entire song? In shitty grammar?_

_DP: YEP_

_DP: beneath my wingssss_

_DP: FLYYYYYYYYY_

_DP: FLYYYYYYYY_

_Peter: …_

-

-

-

**4 hours later:**

[This is stupid.]

[[You’re stupid.]]

[Your FACE is stupid.]

“Oh my holy chalupas, you’re _both_ stupid and if you don’t stop talking _right now_ I’m gonna blow my brains out. Again. And then I’ll have to clean it up. Again. And then we’ll just repeat this conversation. Again…”

[[That threat was just sad.]]

[Give him a break, he’s too horny to think straight.]

Wade’s head thumps onto the kitchen countertop hard enough to smart. Face smooshed against the tiles, he reaches blindly for the bag of frozen peas he’d gotten out of the freezer earlier and plops it against his neck, holds it there for a while and shivers all over. White’s not wrong, not that Wade has any plans to admit it.

[Too late, I can hear your thoughts.]

[[Look, this is pathetic. Why don’t we just die again for a little while?]]

[Seems like the best option, really.]

[[They’re not going to call.]]

[Nope, nope, nope.]

[[Even if they do, they’re just gonna say they couldn’t find anybody willing to bone the ugliest motherfucker alive, not to mention you’re the wrong gender for an omega, not even for millions of dollars. How many millions did you offer them again?]]

Too many millions, probably. But Omega Advocates is a start up company, privately owned, trying to get their foot in the door to the business world. Surely, they’d take him on for wads of cash. Aren’t most small, new businesses hard up for cash? Wade doesn’t have much – okay, he doesn’t have anything – besides beaucoup de monies lying around. It’d be a win-win. Wade finally gets a heatmate to take the edge off his crazy, and the tiny little new business gets all the money they could need to stay in business and grow into something sustainable. Nobody can refuse millions of dollars, right?

[HA.]

[[Wrong! It’s gonna take more than millions of dollars to get something like you a heatmate. It’s just not gonna happen. No sane person would ever take you on. Alphas didn’t even want you when you _weren’t_ hideous. You’re useless to them. Nature’s screw-up, remember? Male omegas aren’t even supposed to exist. And now you’ve got a face that literally makes people throw up. Plus, your heat-scent is nothing but gunpowder and burnt flesh. Talk about a turn off… try turn around and run in the other direction, yeesh. You might as well curl up in your stupid little nest and die again. And again. And again. And again –]]

[– and again and again and again –]

Wade bangs his head against the counter in sync with their words, fever-hot and hazy all over. He’s killed himself three times this heat. So far. But that was before he finally called Omega Advocates. Now he’s stuck waiting for them to call back with their verdict before he can kill himself again, and Yellow and White aren’t making the wait go by any faster. The whole place reeks of his heat-scent, the air thick and syrupy with it, and it’s a little hard to walk from one room to the next, legs like jelly, vision all screwy. He grinds down on the stool, whining, one hand clenching the bag of peas against his neck, the other scratching hot lines of pain down a nude thigh. He’s sniffing, instinctive, unable to stop, seeking out the scent of another. Of any other. But there’s nobody else, nothing else, nothing but his own stink. The scent blockers in the apartment are great at containing his scent, sure, but they’re also great at keeping any other scents from filtering in. He’s alone here, completely alone, and the lack of anybody else around, the lack, the lack –

At least Spidey distracted him for a bit. Senseless texting. Meant nothing. Okay, except for the fact that Spidey apparently MISSED him and would BACK HIM against the AVENGERS and Wade’s not crying, you’re crying –

But he’s never scented Spidey. Doesn’t have any scent-memories to go along with the one bright spot in his shitty, terminally eternal existence. And scents are what he needs right now – Wade’s going to go insane… er. Ooh, but he bets Spidey smells amazeballs. It’d be all the good things in the world all smooshed together into one big smell-orgy, just thinking about it makes it harder to think about anything else, anything besides the heat and the tingles and the slick-sweet – damnit, why can’t he just smell _one fucking person_ in this _fucking_ apartment complex –

What are the chances they’ll call back with anything other than a rejection, honestly? Not great. His record’s a mess at the omega centers. If there’s an alpha at this new place willing to work with him despite the fact that he’s a man _and_ despite the fact that he looks _and smells_ like a walking, talking corpse, then they’ll surely take one look at why he’s blacklisted from the omega centers and reject him on the spot for it. Why is he even trying to wait for their call? It’s a dead end. If they do call, it’ll just be a snide sorry-not-sorry talk, and can he honestly handle one of those right now?

[Yo!]

[[Dumbassssss, yoo hoooooo.]]

[They’re calling! They’re calling!]

[[Answer it, answer it, answer ittttt.]]

[Let’s get this over with so we can die again!]

They – his phone’s ringing. It’s. It’s ringing.

Shit!

Wade scrambles for it, sliding off the stool slick from his own slick, fumbling to drop the peas and grab the phone in shaking, clammy hands. His finger’s on the accept call button before his mind even has the chance to panic, and he’s limping hazily toward his nest, sticky and trembly and way too out of it to make for an even remotely coherent conversationalist. As it is, he can only ramble out a fumbled greeting, the voices laughing at him all the way.

A woman’s voice comes through, clear and confident. “Mr. Wilson, I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to reach back out –”

Ooh, nice start to a rejection, here it comes, here it comes –

“– but I’ve found an alpha eager to pair with you, and I’d like to go through these next few steps to set up his arrival time and work out your meal deliveries. Would any particular time work best for you today? He’s available at your convenience.”

“He – um, I’m hearing things. Right?”

[Absolutely.]

[[I’m hearing them too, what the ever-living –]]

“If you _are_ hearing things, that’s perfectly understandable given how long you’ve gone without a heatmate,” the woman says, no-nonsense, soft and understanding. Wade clutches the phone, wide-eyed, mouth open uselessly as he listens. He feels a little disconnected, like he’s not even here, like maybe he killed himself right before this phone call and this is some sort of dream-like hell that starts off pretty but then derails right when he starts to believe it. The lady’s still talking, a voice that drones in the background of his tunnel vision, there but not there, “But I assure you, we’ve found an alpha for you and he’ll be along as soon as you give the go-ahead.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not, Mr. Wilson.”

Despite the news – that he’s going to actually have a heatmate, maybe, this time – Wade’s heart clenches, something fearful curling up inside him. It was one thing to hope for it, but now, he’s just a little – this wasn’t ever actually going to happen, is all. A stranger coming to his house? The last time the omega center sent an alpha, he’d been – it’d been – Wade tries breathe slowly and calm his heart, tries not to hyperventilate at the thought of another stranger coming into his space when he’s at his most vulnerable to _help_. It sure as hell hadn’t been helpful the last time. But he wanted this, he did, the voices are going crazy and _he’s_ going crazy and if there’s not another smell in this apartment _stat_ he’s not sure he’s coming back from the brink of insanity this go around, he’s gotta do this, gotta try this out, gotta – “I – okay, wow, I mean, that’s – yeah, I’m ready whenever he is – this is… he’s coming today?”

“His name is Peter Parker, and he’s been a hired alpha for three years. Usually, we like to have you pick your alpha out of a range of scents, so you know in advance if you’re scent-compatible, but with your case being what it is –”

“I get it, he’s the only one who’d take me –”

“You’re not wrong.” There’s no beating around the bush with this one. Wade winces, but still, at least one of them _did_ agree to take him on, that’s way more than he was ever expecting, he’s going to have an actual heatmate in his space _today_ , any hour now, any minute, oh holy batman, he’s going to hyperventilate – “And I’m sorry for that – I wish we could have offered you more choice in this. We’re in the early stages of growing and –”

“Money!” Wade blurts, stopping her.

“I mean,” he breathes, curling into the cushions of his nest a little more. “Who needs choice? I’m just, like, so grateful you didn’t reject me outright, and I’ve gotta pay before he gets here, right? I know I only offered – well, I don’t really remember how much I offered, but it’s probably not enough, I can wire the funds, or like, cash? Do you need cash?”

“You will absolutely not be paying 5 million dollars, Mr. Wilson. You’ll pay what every other omega we work with pays. Half upfront, half after your heat. We accept many different forms of payment and we’ll work with –”

The rest of the conversation is mostly a blur of disbelief and details he won’t remember twelve minutes from now. But the lady’s nice and clearly does her job well. She describes Peter Parker for him so he knows at least who he’s expecting. Even sends a damn picture of him through text while they’re still on the phone, waits for his confirmation that he’s okay with the man pictured being his hired alpha this go around before transferring his information over to Peter. And Wade is – well, he nearly flinches when he opens the text, braced for something bad, but then freezes the moment he sees him. Mousy brown hair tousled just right, bright kind eyes, lean shoulders, wiry frame. Cute baby face, really, and the first thing out of Wade’s suddenly-dry throat is to make sure he’s even legal. Which very obviously offends Ms. Watson, whose understanding tone morphs into carefully calculated in two seconds flat. She assures him that Peter Parker is in his mid-twenties, so that’s good. But damn, he looks young. Especially compared to worn-down Wade. He’s not sure this is a good idea at all. Peter’s going to take one sniff at him and run for the hills. He’s going to get way more than just a glimpse of Wade’s skin. And Wade’s not even paying him extra for the trouble. Apparently, Peter Parker’s _eager to pair with him_ just out of the goodness of his bright-eyed little heart.

And apparently, he’ll be here in less than an hour.

Once the call’s done, Wade chucks the phone somewhere on the floor beside his nest and lays there trembling an embarrassingly long while. For better or worse, a young alpha’s coming. He scents the air, but there’s still nothing, and the lack – the lack – the lack – Wade grabs a pillow, presses it as firmly as he can over his face, and tries not to press hard enough to smother himself. It’s gonna be hard enough to get the alpha to come through the door once he sees him… once he smells him. It’d be twice as difficult to explain if cute-face got here to a corpse.

[Should we clean?]

[[Did that already. Three times. Nothing else to clean.]]

[Better at least lock the death room up. Isn’t Pete pretty? I wanna lick him.]

[[Too bad he’s too good to be true. We clearly hallucinated the whole thing.]]

[The picture’s still on our phone, dumbass. Maybe we should get dressed?]

Wade whines at the idea, his omega side absolutely not on board with it. He’s too hot to wear clothes, they’d be too itchy, too confining, too – but Peter’s coming, he’ll be here any minute, he should probably at least be wearing pants when meeting someone new, right? He should definitely get up right now, suck it up, and put on some damn pants.

Instead, Wade manages to rub one out, extremely frustrated, extremely sweaty, extremely – extremely anxious. He’s coming down from the entirely unsatisfying orgasm, a sticky revolting mess, still hard as stone and spewing slick from a clenching hole, when three firm knocks sound from the front door.

_Knock, knock, knock_


	3. I Want to Take Care of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments blew me away. Each one made me smile and feel warm. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm hoping to get around to responding to you all individually within the next couple days, but please know how much your comments mean to me and how inspiring they are. <3
> 
> See you all next month!

3: I want to take care of you

-

-

-

Peter’s not sure this is a good idea at all.

Unfortunately, it seems like it’s the only option, so bad idea or not… He showers three times to be safe, trying to wash the smell of his last omega completely away. It’s been all of – what, one day since he’d been her heatmate? And Peter spent that whole glorious day off wrestling with dogs. Because nothing says a day off like magical villains and intense physical exertion. After shower three, Peter stares at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror, at the molted bruises and red scratches across his arms and chest. His healing factor should take care of them within the next few hours or so, but he doesn’t exactly have that time to spare healing up, does he? It’s a good thing every New Yorker probably has similar scrapes from yesterday; otherwise, he’s not sure it’d be possible to explain away. The only true concern – well, that’s a lie, Peter’s got plenty of true concerns – but the most _pressing_ concern in the ever-present challenge of keeping Spider-Man a secret is his wrists.

Holding one wrist gingerly up to his eye level, he presses a tentative finger against the swollen-hot gland there, wincing at the sharp burn. Both wrists look much the same: swollen red, puffy and inflamed where his natural webbing comes out, two dark black holes that definitely don’t look like normal human attributes. Peter creates a near-replica of his natural web fluid in the labs at school to use in the web shooters because his body simply does not produce enough of it to support Spider-Man’s crime fighting/swinging through the city ventures. He makes enough of it that he never needs to use his natural webbing, usually, but with how swamped he’s been at Omega Advocates lately and with yesterday’s all-day spider-slinging… now… well, now, he’s probably not going to have time to make more for a little while. His body should replenish his natural webbing eventually, but that’ll take time. Plus, even if it did replenish fast, his wrists ache too much for it to matter. He can still be Spider-Man without webbing, of course. Spider-Man might just have to take the subway or jog through the streets until there’s time to make more.

The real question is, how will he explain these wounds to his latest omega?

Honestly, there are so many reasons he should not be about to head to a new omega. Wounds that are going to limit his ability to be what he needs to be, mind and heart still thinking about his last omega since it’s been literally _one day_ since he was her alpha… Aunt May sounded worried sick over the news that he was needed again so soon. If he’d made it into the office before calling MJ and hearing about the omega’s particular situation, and she’d had the chance to _see_ the state he’s in? There’s no way MJ would have let him go. She’d be furious with him if she ever found out he was going injured. They would have had to turn the omega down.

But that’s – that’s just ridiculous.

First of all, the alphas they’d hired so far seemed great. Positive ratings all around, they talked about omegas as if they were equal human beings, _which they are_ , and all of them seemed to have the same drive that Peter had to support the unsupported and provide for the unprovided for. So why had none of them accepted this job? Why is Peter the only person in their entire company who didn’t have any problem whatsoever being a male omega’s heatmate? Especially when Peter’s seen at least two of them frequenting the gay bar scene?

If anything, working with their first male omega is opening Peter’s eyes to a different sort of prejudice they hadn’t thought to screen for in their hiring process. It’ll be something to consider for the future. Something he should have considered much sooner, except that male omegas are so rare that he’s never even seen one, let alone thought they’d ever come across one. It just was never a thought, and it should have been. For all Peter knows, there are more male omegas than the world thinks; perhaps they just wear scent-blockers to conceal it. Most people wear them in their everyday lives anyway, so of course male omegas would as well. The only time they’d be required to reveal their statuses would be during heats, and then only to their heatmates.

Surely this is something he and MJ should have thought about in the front end of forming their business.

He feels – responsible for the position this omega is in.

It’s his fault that they hadn’t hired anyone willing to work with a male omega.

It’s his fault that Peter’s his only option now.

So, well, good idea or not, he’s going to set aside his own baggage and see this through.

For now, Peter wraps his wrists in bandages, concealing the issue entirely but also sighing in relief as the pressure of the wraps relieves some of the pain. Hopefully he can just keep them wrapped until they’re better and blame the dog attacks for the wounds. That done, Peter pulls comfortable jeans and a loose sweater on, going for comfort and concealment. If clothes do end up coming off, hopefully most of the bruises and scratches will be gone. He wonders how Julie faired during that whole mess, if her power ever came back on, if she stayed inside to be safe…

Nope, not his omega. Still not his omega.

Going to have a new omega in like an hour, actually. Better stop thinking about Julie… she’s fine. Surely she stayed home. Surely the power’s back on. The power’s on in Peter’s apartment. She’s fine. Probably not even thinking about Peter anymore; she didn’t even like Peter. _Peter_ didn’t even like _her_. It’s Wade Wilson he needs to be thinking about now.

So that’s what Peter does.

Wade Wilson. Male omega, mid-thirties, going on three years without a heatmate. Three years! There’s no way Peter could let him go through another one alone. How is he even still sane? It’s easily the longest anyone’s gone without a heatmate that Peter’s encountered since he first got into the hired alpha business. Even omegas in _prisons_ don’t go as long without at least an alpha to scent during their heats. And that’s not even the most concerning thing about Wade’s case – apparently, he’d been banned from the omega centers after he “violently attacked” a hired alpha three years ago. The hired alpha ended up with a severe concussion and two cracked ribs two days into Wade’s heat.

Which, okay, _could_ have been because Wade’s just a violent guy.

 _Or_ it could have been because the omega centers hire shit alphas, and that particular shit alpha did something particularly shitty to Wade.

Either way, Peter’s Spider-Man. He’s not exactly worried for his safety.

He’s mostly just – worried about Wade.

MJ sent him a picture, and Wade is – well, scarred is putting it mildly. In the photo, he wore a hoodie, the hood pulled down to show a bald, scarred head and scars that just kept going. They disappeared underneath the hoodie, but MJ informed him that Wade is pretty much covered in those scars, head to toe. There’s a texture to them even in a 2D image – rough scabs and red divots. Peter wonders if they hurt. Whatever caused them must have hurt beyond anything he could imagine.

He’s not sure he wants to imagine anything that bad.

The scars aren’t off-putting, though. They remind him of what little he’s seen of Deadpool’s skin, actually. Deadpool keeps himself covered as much as possible, and it took a few months before he was comfortable enough to roll the mask up enough to eat around Spider-Man. The scars are rough, of course, and never fail to twinge Peter’s sympathy meter, but they’re familiar. It’s comforting to Peter’s alpha, soothing to think that there’s at least one thing that’ll remind him of a friend when he gets there. Even scarred, Wade’s got a rugged sort of handsomeness about his face, a sharp jawline and kind brown eyes, broad shoulders rounded forward in the photo, unsmiling and trying to hide.

It’s with that mental image that Peter walks to the address given for Wade’s apartment, a thirty minute trek that has Peter’s nerves on edge and his scent all over the place. He wears a scent blocker all the time out in public _except_ for when he’s on the way to an omega’s, and if the looks he’s getting are anything to go by, he’s not letting off some very calming scents. The stress has fellow pedestrians hastily crossing the street to avoid him or stumbling into people to move away. He feels like a predator scaring away prey, and that just makes him hunch forward and walk faster, hands in his pockets and head down.

It’s going to be a long walk.

-

-

-

“Um, so –” Wade fidgets with the black sheet that’s wrapped around him, one leg bouncing, a bare, scarred foot tap-tap-tapping out a frantic rhythm on the carpet. He sits on the couch both stiff and hunched in on himself, sitting on the edge of the cushions like he might bolt at any moment. It takes entirely too much control for Peter not to scoot closer, not to reach out and try to soothe some of that nervous tension that’s pouring from Wade’s posture and scent both. Reaching out right now probably wouldn’t soothe it, anyway, so Peter clenches his fists in his lap and keeps himself as still as possible, waits for Wade to keep talking.

For _Deadpool_ to keep talking.

Peter hadn’t known it was him until Wade opened the door. Hadn’t even considered it. Which is stupid, really. How many scarred Wade Wilsons could there possibly be in New York, anyway? But _Deadpool wasn’t an omega_. Sure, they’d never scented each other, but Deadpool was – he’d been so sure that Deadpool had to have been a – well, _anything else_. Alpha made the most sense, because Deadpool in the suit was this larger-than-life loudmouth who used to kill people for a living and still occasionally beat up the bad guys with a little too much enthusiasm. He could be downright vicious, sometimes, to the point that Peter’s spidey sense tingled in proximity. Not that all alphas were aggressive, or that only alphas could be aggressive, or that any of the stereotypes that applied to any of the genders had to mean anything at all – but.

Deadpool, _an omega?_

Omega males were so rare that it hadn’t even occurred to Peter that Deadpool might have been one. Even when MJ sent him a picture she’d found of Wade Winston Wilson from the omega center and Peter saw the scars that reminded him of Deadpool’s chin or the flashes of scarred skin Spider-Man saw whenever Deadpool got sliced up or shot through. Even with the same name and the same scars, Peter hadn’t connected any of those dots. Not until he heard Wade’s voice. That high-pitched, soft baritone is unmistakable.

Suddenly, Deadpool saying he’s sick makes all sorts of sense. 

“Do you fuck me now, or…?”

Peter’s mouth drops open, all on its own.

Deadpool – _Wade_ – bounces his leg more, glancing down, brown eyes blown wide from the heat as he draws obviously incorrect conclusions from Peter’s sudden silence and barrels onward. “I mean, not that your scent alone isn’t doing wonders, because _wow_ , ten out of ten, would sniff again. And it’ll probably help enough by itself that we don’t even have to do the do. I’m already way more lucid than I was before you got here. Things are even quiet in the ol’ noggin right now, which let me tell you, does _not_ happen often. But – isn’t that why you’re here? Helpless omega in heat to ravish?”

Peter opens his mouth on purpose this time, not sure which part of Deadpool’s frantic rambling to clear up first, except then Deadpool adds on a rushed, “I know I’m not pretty. Or a girl. And I probably don’t smell great to your alpha. But I’m slick as any omega, and if you get past all this gross shit,” he sweeps a hand out from under the sheet to gesture at his face, “I promise it’ll feel good.”

“Would it be all right if –”

“You don’t even have to look at me. We can just rip a hole in the sheet so you –”

“Wade!” Deadpool flinches and shuts up, fidgeting under the fabric that’s keeping most of him concealed, eyes turned away. Peter’s heart kind of wants to crawl out of his chest. The couch is entirely too long, too many spaces between them. He’s never seen Deadpool uncertain like this around him before, so skittish, and Peter’s absolutely sure he never wants to see it again.

This should feel weird. He’s never shared a heat with an omega he knows. Deadpool doesn’t even know that they know each other. He’s not sure what to do about that, not sure how to do this without feeling like he’s taking advantage of an unaware friend. He should probably just tell him, but, well, how? This whole mess already feels so fragile. Wade’s already two seconds away from bolting, flinching any time Peter opens his mouth, insulting himself in every breath. How could he put that giant revelation between them right now, when it feels like there’s already too much space between them? He’s not sure Spider-Man could help Deadpool right now. But maybe Peter can help Wade.

There are so many reasons this should feel weird. But almost everything his friend has said since Peter got here has been – just. _Painful_ to hear. He’s not sure his heart can take much more of it, let alone the accompanying stress scent coming off him in waves. Omega stress scents are _made_ to be hard for an alpha to ignore, but Deadpool’s fires up Peter’s spidey sense like nothing he’s ever experienced, makes him feel like there should be something in the room to fight or fend off. And maybe there is, really, if Deadpool’s apparent lack of self-worth and feverish nerves are something Peter could fight.

Peter takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. “I was going to ask: would it be all right if I hugged you?

Deadpool’s head jerks up, wide eyes locking with Peter’s.

“You’re okay,” Peter says, slow and intentional. “I’m not here to do anything you don’t want to do. There’s really no set script to this, yeah? And I’m nervous too, so really, we’re kinda in this together. If you just want to cuddle your heat away, I’m here for it. If you want more than that, I’m here for it, too. But I think that no matter what we do or don’t do, it’s important for us to get comfortable around each other first. So, hug? I’ve been wanting to hug you since you opened the door, honestly. Or we could watch TV, yours is way bigger than mine is –”

“That’s what she said.” Wade blurts, then a quieter, exhaled, “ _Fuck_.”

Peter’s not sure what that quiet curse means. The sudden silence feels heavy. As heavy as the stress scent and the underlying smell that’s just Wade, a mix of something earthy and warm, like funnel cakes and sunshine, tacos on a rooftop shared between friends. The anxiety and worry Peter had carried into this all but poofed out of existence the moment Wade opened the door, the moment Peter first smelled him. Inexplicably, Wade smells like safety, and this apartment is bathed in it. It’s entirely different from anything he expected to find here. A _friend_ was entirely different from anything he expected to find here.

“You sure you wanna hug – this?”

Wade’s looking – all wrong. There’s a deadness in his eyes that’s entirely out of character. An uncertainty that makes Peter _ache_. Who knew that under all of Deadpool’s flirting and typical bluster, there’d be this?

Peter’s not sure he can speak through the sudden lump in his throat.

He scoots closer and holds his arms out.

Wade leans against him almost as soon as he’s close enough, head ducking to press against Peter’s shoulder, hiding his face. He’s trembling through the sheet and Peter wraps his arms around him as best he can with the weird side angle, tightening his grip and wriggling to get more comfortable. It’s instantly calming to have him this close, his spidey sense easing off, stress-scent smoothing out into something less stifling, something softer in the air. Wade’s a warm wall of muscle against him, smelling like _want_ and _need_ and _heat_ , and Peter squirms because it’s making _Peter_ want and need and heat, and this might be the fastest an omega’s scent’s ever gotten to him, the fastest his alpha’s _wanted_.

But it’s Deadpool. It’s someone he _knows_. The emotional connection’s going to make this a different experience. He should have prepared for how overwhelming this would feel, should have –

“You’re pretty special, Petey,” Wade mumbles against his shoulder.

And Peter – Peter doesn’t usually feel special. Spider-Man, maybe. But Peter?

Wade moves his head closer, nuzzling into Peter’s neck, now, breathing a slow deep inhale and making a show of scenting him. Peter’s skin tingles at the spot where Wade’s nose brushes. He freezes in place, heart jack rabbiting against his ribcage as he lets the omega scent him. Then Peter rests his own head against Wade’s. Nuzzles back. The texture of Wade’s skin against Peter’s sends shudders down his spine, makes his alpha whine. He feels _surrounded_ by Wade, even though Peter’s the one with his arms wrapped around the larger man. As soon as he nuzzles back, though, Wade tenses, starts to pull away. And Peter gets it. He does. Scenting like this – it’s more intimate than a hired alpha usually gets. More intimate than anyone usually gets this early on. Fucking is fine. Cuddling, cool. But scenting? It’s visceral. An act of trust, filled up with promise for a future. You don’t scent someone unless you’re – invested.

Peter gets why he’d want to scent Wade. He _knows_ him.

But for Wade to scent an alpha he’d basically just met twenty minutes ago?

He’s _touch-starved_.

Peter tightens his grip, pulls him back until his head’s leaning against his shoulder again. They sit like that for what feels like a long time, trembling and breathing together on Wade’s couch, feeling each other move in the smallest of ways. At some point, Wade starts humming the Spider-Man theme song, because of course he does, and Peter pets a hand up and down Wade’s sheet-covered arm, content to let the sound fill the silence. Inwardly, he can’t help but feel like the worst friend in the history of bad friends. How long have they been friends, anyway? How many years now? And Peter _never_ picked up on Deadpool’s need for touch?

How many hugs had he shaken off or flat-out dodged?

He does his best to make up for it now. They turn on the TV after a while, flick through the channels until they settle on a show where future brides shop for their wedding gowns, and they cuddle. They’re both awkward at first, both trying not to move too much and unsettle the person beside them, both a little stiff. The TV helps. Once Wade gets started talking about the dresses, he can’t be stopped, and soon they’re both pretty invested in this one girl who grew up with a skin condition and didn’t think she’d ever feel as pretty as she does in the long-sleeved laced-up gown the professionals found for her. She cries as she talks about it, and then Wade ugly cries along with her, and then they’re both crying along with her because Peter can’t help but think that that’s how _Wade_ feels in _his_ skin, and none of that feeling is _fair_.

“Talk about a buzz kill,” Wade says, sniffling. He’s since taken one arm out from under the sheet and he uses his free hand to rub at his eyes. On the screen, the girl’s family surrounds her, all of them hugging and crying.

“I dunno,” Peter says, watching Wade. “It’s a happy ending. She feels pretty.”

“For one fucking day, maybe.” Wade snorts. “I’ve got a few dresses that – that make _me_ feel pretty, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. Doesn’t matter how you feel when you know you’re still just a molted meatball that smells like cooked meat at the end of the day.”

Peter’s brain sort of short circuits at the thought of Deadpool in a dress.

Of _Wade_ in a dress.

“Excuse me,” he says, feeling bolder after their hours long cuddle session. Wade’s moved so that his head is in Peter’s lap and he’s laying sprawled along the couch, with Peter running a hand along his scalp. Wade’s still trembling, a little, and he squirms sometimes and whines, a soft huff of breath that he instantly tries covering up with babbled small talk. And the sizable tent in the sheet is – noticeable. Occasionally distracting. But it’s been clear since the start that Wade’s not even remotely comfortable enough for sex, and they’re both trying to ignore that part of things. Peter _wants_ , but it’s a content want, a background itch he won’t scratch. And if Wade’s head in his lap occasionally nuzzles up against something that has Peter squirming, too? It’s _fine._ “But I happen to like the smell of cooked meat. And you _don’t_ look like a molted meatball. What does that even look like? It doesn’t matter. What _does_ matter is that I think you’re pretty as is –”

Wade literally guffaws, wheezing through his sudden burst of laughter.

“ – and if you don’t believe my words, believe my scent.”

Wade stops laughing. Tilts his head a little, considering, and it’s the cutest damn head tilt Peter’s ever seen. He sniffs the air, and his eyes are bright and wide as they stare up at Peter. Peter pets his friend’s head, fingertips trailing across his forehead and down to his neck. Wade visibly shudders, turns his head so that his face is buried in Peter’s jeans. He mumbles something that Peter doesn’t hear.

Then he turns his head back up to look at Peter and says, “You got me all hot and bothered, Petey.”

“Pretty sure your heat’s got you all hot and bothered,” but Peter can’t stop the smile.

“Mm, no, it’s definitely you,” Wade protests. He swings his free arm up and bops Peter on the nose, then giggles when Peter scrunches his face. “If anyone’s pretty here, it’s totes you. You’re like – like a sparkly unicorn alpha, riding up to rescue me, the princess, ob-vee. I’ve gotta say, cuddling’s nice. And you’re nice. Can’t remember the last time I just – cuddled someone. ‘S nice. And you didn’t even throw up when you saw my face, and you’re _touching_ my face –” Wade goes cross-eyed as Peter bops _him_ on the nose, this time. There’s something tentative in the little smile he gives then, something hopeful as he looks up at him, wide-eyed and flushed, and says, “Would you maybe want to take this to my – nest?”

Peter _does_.

But first he gets Wade a glass of water, insists he drink some. Wade doesn’t want to eat yet, says he’s hungrier for Peter than for food, and fuck if the sudden appearance of Wade’s flirty, less skittish side doesn’t do things to Peter. He scoops the man off the couch, sheet dragging on the floor as he carries him bridal style to where Wade tells him to go, down a short hall and to the first closed door. Startled, both Wade’s arms come out of the sheet to hold onto Peter’s neck as he’s carried, his self-consciousness about his skin seemingly forgotten as he exclaims, “Holy super strength, batman! I’ve never been carried like a real princess before! This is like a fever dream I had once, only I was wearing a long flowing wig and there was a power ballad playing in the background. Onward, trusty steed!”

Laughing, Peter fumbles with the doorknob. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Seriously though, you’re like mad strong.” Wade sounds positively awed. Appreciative.

Peter nudges the door open, careful not to bump Wade, unable to help the pleased grin, the warm buzz from being appreciated by his omega. Normally he’d be reminding himself not to take it too seriously, not to think of Wade as his. He shouldn’t forget that he’s been hired – it’s a dangerous thing to forget. But in that moment, warm and easy, none of that crosses his mind. He’s too busy taking in the clean, bright bedroom that makes up Deadpool’s nest. There’s a huge mattress in the corner of the room, nearest the window, and it’s stacked with pillows of all shapes and sizes, fluffy and colorful. He’s got posters on the walls of various things, but the ones that Peter’s eyes immediately catch on are the two Spider-Man ones. He averts his eyes, flushed and happy, and tries not to think too hard about why. He sets Wade on the mound of pillows, careful, and Wade immediately curls his toes against the sheets, sighing. He makes grabby hands toward Peter, who laughs and joins him until they’re cuddled close again, only this time on a much comfier surface. Somehow, Peter expected Deadpool’s place less – clean. But things are so carefully placed, a few comics laid out neatly on top of a dresser, nothing on the floors, pillows arranged in a giant circle on the mattress, rainbow unicorn plushies scattered amongst the pillows… the care that Wade put into his nest is obvious, and it makes Peter want to take up that same level of care.

“I want to take care of you,” Peter says, lips moving against Wade’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” Wade breathes. “Big strong alpha like you, bet you’d take real good care of me.”

“I would,” Peter agrees, equally breathless. “I _will_.”

Still, they both hesitate. Wade turns so that he’s the little spoon, but he grinds his pelvis down every so often, undulating against the sheets, grinding back against Peter with just the right amount of pressure to send sparks of pleasure tingling across every nerve. Peter runs his fingers along Wade’s arms, across his stomach, light touches across each expanse of skin he can reach. The lights are off but sunlight filters in from cracks around the curtains, casting enough light to see each other fully, but Wade isn’t hiding here in his nest like he had been on the couch. He’s more assured, moving with more confidence as he clutches back at Peter’s arm that’s wrapped around him and wiggles. Peter lets his hand wander downward, caressing over Wade’s hip and then edging closer.

“Is this okay?”

Wade whimpers, pressing back, grinding his ass into Peter’s front, which is very firmly on board with the proceedings. “This is more than okay, P-petey, ooh, please.”

“Please?”

“Take care of me?” Wade whispers it like a confession. “Alpha?”

Peter’s heart twinges right along with the rest of him. He soothes a hand over Wade’s skin, petting him, then moves down to wrap a loose hand around the omega’s wet cock, waiting for any sign that it’s too much, too soon. But Wade whines and thrusts into his hand, giving every indication that it’s not enough, not enough, so Peter kisses along the scars on Wade’s shoulder and grips a little harder, sliding a slow hand up and down, smiling at the whimpers and moans, grinning through his kisses at how effortlessly they move together in the warmth of this fluffy nest, so carefully made up. The movement pulls at his swollen wrists, but it’s not bad, the pain more of an afterthought, the previous day’s dog-wrestling long since removed from his mind. It takes hardly any time at all for Wade to shudder out his first orgasm, panting and sweaty as he comes down from it with Peter’s hand still loosely clutched around him. He turns and tucks his head under Peter’s chin, wraps himself like an octopus around Peter, both of them breathing hard, Peter painfully hard and confined in his jeans but painfully satisfied at the same time, content right where they are. The whole room smells like them, a comforting, all-encompassing scent, all rich warmth. Wade presses his sticky mess against Peter, clutching at him like his life depends on it. Peter clutches back.

They stay that way, wrapped into each other, Wade slick and Peter completely okay with the mess, until Peter’s too hot to keep so many clothes on. He wiggles out from under Wade, who whines at the loss, but instantly perks up when he sees Peter pulling his shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor beside the nest.

Wade immediately runs a hand down Peter’s side, eyes dark. “What happened, Petey?”

Peter looks down at where Wade’s hand is hovering, suddenly remembering the wide expanse of bruising there. He opens his mouth. “The dogs, yesterday,” he kind of mumbles. “’s just bruises though.”

“You sure there’s nobody you need me to kill?”

Despite the fact that he _knows_ Deadpool doesn’t kill anymore, the question sounds serious, Wade’s eyes dark and suddenly dangerous. Peter swallows, feeling both warm and aroused and slightly flustered, and tries to laugh. “Not unless you wanna kill Spot or Frido.”

“They do these too, sweetums?” Wade picks up Peter’s hand, gently prodding the bandages he has wrapped around his wrists. Peter winces, draws his hands back. Those sting a lot more than the bruises.

“Yeah,” Peter says. He clears his throat. “It was a mess yesterday.”

“Looks like it,” Wade says. Peter can feel Wade searching his face, can feel the weight of those eyes on him. “I can make it look like an accident. I’ll just throw that out there. They’d never find the body.”

“Nobody hurt me, Wade.”

“And I one hundred percent believe you.” Somehow, Peter doubts that. “But for future reference, keep that in mind, yeah? If anybody ever did try to hurt you… I’m good at hiding bodies.” Wade grins, suddenly, and nuzzles his face into Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of you.”

If this were anybody but Deadpool saying it, Peter wouldn’t feel as good as he does right about now. “I know you would,” he says, stopping himself at the last minute from referring to him as Deadpool. It still feels too fragile to tell him that he’s Spider-Man, still feels like it’d ruin everything. Soon, though. When his heat’s died down. When he’s less emotionally compromised. Peter’s going to need to tell him.

But first, he’s going to take care of him.


	4. Such a Tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I've been quarantined... what else is there to do but write?
> 
> Warning for smut! Should probably just have that warning up every chapter...

4\. Such a Tease

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Peter’s only been in one real relationship, and it was in high school. Before becoming a hired alpha, in the middle of becoming Spider-Man, Peter Parker dated a sweet girl named Gwen. A beta. She’d actually liked the fact that Peter wasn’t as big as most alphas, didn’t even act like one, really. He’d grown up with Ben as his role model, and out of all the alphas in the world, Benjamin Parker had to have been the best. He treated Aunt May the way an equal would, but more than that, he truly cared for her. They cared for each other, in the way relationships were supposed to be. A whole lot of giving, not much taking. A whole lot of laughs without tension and power struggles and mental manipulations. In Peter’s experience as a hired alpha, there’s way too much of that going around.

With Gwen though, it’d been sweet. Largely innocent, given how inexperienced and new they’d both been at the time. Chaste kisses in the hallways, his heart racing every time she’d grab his hand. One memorable make-out session, when he’d been touched by another person for the very first time.

And then, of course, Spider-Man got in the way.

He hated Spider-Man for a while after that. After Gwen died. After he failed to save her. She died because she got roped into his alter ego’s messes and he just didn’t get there in time. He steered clear of relationships – pretty much ever since. Being a hired alpha was the perfect excuse, of course, because who’d want to be in a relationship with someone who spent weeks on end with another person? With _lots_ of other persons? Whenever Aunt May brought up wanting him to find somebody, that was his go-to. _I’m a hired alpha, Aunt May. It’s what I want to do with my life. Nobody should have to put up with that lifestyle._

In reality, he just couldn’t bear to lose anybody again.

That might have been why he’d so instantly connected to Deadpool. All the other heroes called him a nutcase, warned him against being associated with a known mercenary who couldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be controlled, couldn’t be contained, _couldn’t be killed_. How could they have known how – fascinated Peter would have been by that? By somebody he could hang around without ever worrying that Spider-Man’s crime-fighting might get him killed? Even the other heroes _could_ be killed, and in fact they nearly did how many times throughout their world-saving? It’d always been a bit of a barrier to joining the avengers – sure, Peter _needed_ to use his powers wisely, needed to take care of the little guys, but he was fine doing so as long as he was the only one ever getting hurt from it. It was a lot less gut-wrenching going it alone.

But then Deadpool showed up.

And Peter – well, Peter kinda liked him, despite all the people who didn’t.

Despite the fact that he killed the bad guys. Despite _everything_.

It went something like this:

-

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“Deadpool!”

Spider-Man had just used the bad guy’s phone to call the cops to come retrieve them from a local mom and pop shop robbery when an excited squeal cut through the air. Startled, he turned his back to the two robbers who were squirming like flies caught in a web, muffled cries just barely breaking through the webbing on their mouths, and oofed as a little girl barreled into his legs, hugging with every ounce of muscle she possessed. Awkwardly, he patted her dark hair, wide-eyed as he scanned the streets for her parents.

“I love you! You saved momma!”

Spider-Man paused, blinking down at her. He didn’t remember her, but then, he figured he saved a lot of mommas. He set his hands on her shoulders and nudged her until he could drop down to eye-level and say, “Well aren’t you just awesome. I’m glad I could save –”

“Where’re Bea and Are-thor?” The girl looked over his shoulder.

Peter looked over his shoulder, too, wondering if she somehow knew the two bad guys who were still squirming in their webs. “Those guys?”

She giggled. “No, Bea and Are-thor, your swords!”

“My… swords…”

Well, suffices to say, Spider-Man had a very disappointed girl on his hands that night when she realized he was the wrong superhero. He’d located her parents after clearing everything up, bemused, having never been mistaken for another super before. His costume and MO were a little conspicuous, after all, what with the whole spider theme. He’d researched Deadpool after that, finding all sorts of social media accounts and old newspaper articles claiming a masked menace in red had slaughtered twelve people at an ice skating rink, who turned out to be child traffickers. Or the masked menace in red skewered three dozen Chinese delegates and was still “at large.” Wanted in at least five states, banned from three countries… apparently, Peter was completely out of the international affairs loop, because this guy’s been around a while.

And was apparently in New York, now. Saving mommas.

His curiosity didn’t stop there. Oh, no. It might have been one of the only times Peter had ever contacted the Avengers instead of the other way around, too curious for his own good. Hawkeye cursed when Peter mentioned Deadpool might be in New York, claiming Shield would need to know. Then, of course, came the barrage of opinions about how dangerous Deadpool was, how volatile and uncontrollable. Despite the fact that a little girl claimed Deadpool saved her mom, Peter had to admit he’d been expecting something of a monster when he first met the man in person. Surely a dangerous masked menace in red who skewered people and slaughtered child traffickers who had the _Avengers_ wary had to be a little monstrous.

Peter had asked why he was still free if he was so dangerous.

Bruce Banner, _the Hulk himself_ , snorted and said, “He’s virtually unstoppable. Shield’s not sure what to do with him. Nothing keeps him contained for long. They’ve captured him, what, how many times now? He just gets out and keeps going. Causes all sorts of trouble along the way, of course. I think they’re tired of trying.”

“Problem is, he won’t die,” Hawkeye added. “ _Can’t_ die. And trust me, Shield’s tried.”

“He _can’t die_?” Peter had said, not entirely sure why that made his heart race.

“We’ve seen ‘im come back from getting _torn in half_ ,” Hawkeye said.

“Decapitated,” Dr. Banner added.

“Blown up into little bite-sized chunks.”

“If you do ever run into him,” Dr. Banner said then, a serious edge to his voice that had Peter’s spidey sense buzzing. “I suggest you run the other way and let us know. He’s bad news, Spider-Man. Don’t try to fight him.”

Well, joke’s on Dr. Banner. Because Peter _didn’t_ try to fight him.

He just – well, sort of befriended him, instead.

And how could he not, really? They met a few weeks after everybody told Peter to run the other way. Peter had found an omega in rough shape in an alley behind one of the less dangerous bars, her shorts torn off, blood in between her legs, unconscious behind a dumpster. He might not have found her at all, except that a red and black clad masked menace with swords strapped to his back seemed to have gotten there first, causing all sorts of noise as he shot a man _in the penis_ and wagged a finger in the moaning man’s face.

Peter swung down into the alley and immediately webbed the gun away from Deadpool, heart racing, spidey sense going haywire as the man twirled around in apparent outrage and caught sight of him. Then, of course, Deadpool squealed like that little girl had weeks ago and pranced straight toward Spider-Man, stopping only because Spider-Man flipped away and stuck to the brick wall out of reach. Deadpool squealed again and waved, the man he’d shot moaning in a dingy red puddle behind him.

“Oh em gee, you’re Spider-Man!” Deadpool said. “Will you autograph my abs?”

“Will I – what?” Spider-Man said, almost falling off the wall. He righted himself and tried to sound stern, confused and more than a little bit nervous. Deadpool wore a lot of weaponry. A grenade or two at his belt, all sorts of guns and knives, those swords… he remembered the _Hulk’s_ too-serious warning. _“Run the other way.”_

“You just shot a man!” Spider-Man declared, stupidly. Then: “Don’t do that in my city.”

“Ooh, so I can do it _outside_ your city?” Deadpool turns behind him to glance at the man who’s surprisingly still conscious, curled into himself and clutching at his crotch. “Y’hear that, random shmuck? It’s your lucky day! Road trip!” He turned back to Spider-Man, peering up because he hadn’t come down off the wall yet, white mask eyes comically wide and inquisitive. “Although he might bleed out before we make it across state lines… that won’t count though, right, Spidey? And I still want an autograph! On the suit, like right here maybe?” He pointed to his abs, which were _very visible_ even through the leather suit. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you, it’s so wild.”

“You’re meeting me because you just shot someone,” Spider-Man said, slowly. He was still trying to figure this guy out, and more importantly, trying to figure out a way to reach the injured despite there being a ripped wall of weapons standing in the way that even the Hulk didn’t want to mess with. “The only wild part is how you think I’ll let you drive him outside the city and then finish the job. He’s going to a hospital, and _you’re_ going to jail.”

“That’s cute.” Deadpool giggled behind a hand, _literally giggled_. “You’re cute. Yanno, your pics don’t do you justice, just look at you clinging to the wall like a, well, spider! It’s so on brand. I totally dig your whole character arc. But I’m not really in the mood to go to jail today, and this asshole deserves hell, so. Could you maybe ungook my gun from the wall? I mean I’ve got more, but that one’s special. I named him Bob. Also, are you sure you won’t give me an autograph? Pretty please? Make it out to Deadpool, The Merc with the _Best_ Mouth. Ooh, I’d never wash this suit again… actually, I probably haven’t washed it at all. Am I rank? ‘S that why you won’t come down? Sorry, Spidey, I just totally wasn’t prepared to meet you! This is a dream come true!”

Spider-Man took a deep breath through his mask. And he thought _he_ talked too much during his crime-fighting. “How about I give you an autograph if you back down and let that man go?”

“Back down and – who boy, you got this all wrong. He’s the bad guy!” Deadpool jabbed a finger at the ‘bad guy’ bleeding out in a dark alley, using finger guns and everything. Then he stabbed a finger at his own chest, wide-eyed, and said, “I’m the good guy. Well, mostly. Sometimes. Okay, so I’m the mostly chaotic neutral guy, but in this particular instance, I’m the good guy. Doing good things. Saving people. See? C’mere and look, I promise that no matter how good your ass looks, my hands’ll be perfect gentlemen and keep to themselves.”

Deadpool gestured him toward the side of a dumpster Spider-Man couldn’t see from his vantage point on the wall. Weary, absolutely not about to go down there, he crawled along the wall, still out of reach, and looked down and found an unconscious, very obviously assaulted girl, her torn shorts thrown over her lap haphazardly. Spider-Man instantly dropped to the ground and checked for a pulse. She didn’t smell of anything, no emotions, no pain, no gender – which meant either she wore scent blockers or she was – well, dead. But her pulse flickered under his fingers, and her chest rose and fell, labored.

“I’m glad you showed up, actually,” Deadpool said from above him, making him jump. In his haste to get to the girl, he’d almost entirely forgotten about the serial killer a few feet away, until suddenly Deadpool was standing over them, looking down, his mask eyes a blank, unreadable white. “You’ll get her to a hospital, right Spidey? While I take care of the asshole who hurt her? I was gonna take her, right after I offed that guy, but maybe you’ll be received better than I would be. Hospitals tend to have cops, and cops tend to shoot at me on sight even if there’s an unconscious woman in my arms. Go figure.”

“You saved her?”

“Not fast enough,” Deadpool said. “Her life, maybe. But – not her dignity. Not her sense of security.”

He sounded world-weary, disappointed. Spider-Man grabbed the woman up, as gently as possible, careful as he tucked her head close to his chest. He readied a webshooter, looked to Deadpool, who was slumped in on himself and miserable, all the sudden. “Thanks for saving her,” he stressed. Deadpool looked up at him. “You did good, Deadpool. She’s going to be okay. I’ll take her – just, don’t kill that guy? He should go to prison. He deserves that. They’ll do a – rape kit, and he won’t get away. I’m sure he’s got a phone on him; use it to call the cops. Tell them where to pick him up, that he needs an ambulance, that he raped somebody. Then you should probably get out of here, if cops tend to shoot you on sight. It doesn’t usually take them too long to arrive.”

He shot a web at the top of the building before Deadpool could reply.

“You sure are expecting a lot from me!” Deadpool yelled up at him as he swung away.

Spider-Man yelled back. “Don’t make me regret it!”

And Deadpool, well, Deadpool _hadn’t_.

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Now, cuddling Wade Wilson in his nest after their fourth shared orgasm, sticky and sated, Peter wonders if this is what a real relationship feels like. Something built on the backbone of years of friendship, something that makes Peter’s heart race and yearn and _want_ over the simplest of things. The way Wade tucks his head under Peter’s chin even though Peter’s physically smaller. The way Wade makes him feel strong, and desired, and needed. The way his grin stretches his scars as he trails kisses over Peter’s stomach. The way they move together, and laugh together, and play. He’s been with too many omegas to count during heats, but he’s never played. Being silly, being playful, especially during the vulnerability of a heat… it just doesn’t happen without trust. But Peter trusts Deadpool. Trusts Wade. He’s not sure how Wade’s able to open up this much without knowing Peter’s Spider-Man, not sure what makes Wade trust plain old Peter… but he’s loving it a little too much to question it.

It’s darker, now, sunlight no longer coming in from behind the curtains.

Peter sits up, running a hand over Wade’s arm as he goes.

“You need a shower,” he says. “And food. Water. All the things.”

Wade whines and grabs him around the waist, holding on so Peter won’t leave the bed. “Don’t leave me, I’ll dieeee.”

Peter laughs. “First of all, you won’t die. Second of all, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“To both counts,” Peter says. He’s giving Peter a pitiful look, all pleading eyes as he nuzzles his head against Peter’s stomach. So instead of leaving him, even long enough to bring back food from the kitchen, Peter wraps his arms around him and tells him to point him in the direction of the bathroom. Wade holds onto his neck again, happy as a clam to be carried ‘princess style by the strongest alpha in all the land,’ and Peter decidedly does not take that comment to heart, no sirree. They stumble into the bathroom – stumble because Wade’s belting out Jasmine’s part in ‘I Can Show You the World’ from Aladdin and Peter’s laughing too hard to walk straight – and then Peter takes his time washing Wade in a warm shower, who sits with the water hitting his back and leans into every swipe of the loofah. Because of course Wade uses colorful loofahs. When it’s Peter’s turn to shower, Wade grabs the loofah and says, “Let me?”

And Peter – well, Peter’s been with a lot of omegas. None of them have ever offered to wash _him_. “You sure?” he says, because this isn’t exactly protocol. “It’s my job to take care of _you_.”

“Let’s see, am I sure I wanna scrub the hottest bod I ever did see, attached to the legit best alpha I’ve ever had? Hmm, I think I’m gonna need to think about it.” Wade rolls his eyes, makes his grabby hands toward him again. Peter’s starting to like those grabby hands. “Get in here, Parker. I want to take care of you, too.”

And Wade does take care of him. Wade’s still a little shaky for standing, so they sit together under the spray. He’s gentle around his bruises and clucks at his wrists, still wrapped but the bandages are wet, now, and should probably be changed. Wade tells him so, mentions that he’s got bandages if Peter wants him to change them. Peter shakes his head, says he’ll do it later, not sure how to explain what’s underneath without everything unraveling. Wade moves on, washing his legs and stomach. Even in the shower, with a floral body wash wafting in the air, the undercurrent of omega heat combined with Wade’s gentle hands on him has Peter hard again, very much without his permission. Wade notices, because it’d be hard not to, and swipes the loofah very lightly across his erection, his eyes a focused, hungry gaze on the way it bobs in response. His gaze shifts to Peter’s face, as if asking something, and Peter can’t do anything except watch and hang onto the side of the tub with a white-knuckled grip as Wade goes down on him, right there in the shower.

And – ooh, Deadpool really is the merc with the _best_ mouth.

Peter tries to stay still, tries not to thrust up into that wet warmth, panting through the effort as Wade licks slow stripes up and down, up and down, and then takes him in fully, swirling his tongue. Peter can’t think, watching through half-lidded eyes as Wade’s head starts bobbing up and down, taking him in like he’s hungry for it. He uses the hand that’s not holding onto the bathtub to touch Wade’s wet head, to run his fingers over him while he works. Wade’s aching, too, his hard shaft moving languidly against Peter’s leg as he takes Peter apart.

“Y-you’re so pretty, Wade,” he says, shaking. “Ooh, pretty omega. So good.”

Wade must like that, because he whines around his mouthful and speeds up, deepthroating him like he was made for it. Peter moans, says again through a gasp, “Pretty omega, so good to me, y-you’re beautiful down there on my cock, taking me so well. Look at you, so hard and pretty. Ooh, Wade, c-can’t wait to have my mouth around you, you’re so big, bet I’ll choke on it –”

He breaks off with a moan and a whimper, his whole body shaking, wide eyes on Wade as he swallows and swallows and swallows, mouth still and wrapped around his pulsing dick as he catches every drop. They’re both breathing hard when Wade finally pulls off him. He plants a kiss on the tip as he goes, gives another lick. Peter shudders, pulls Wade closer, who’s still humping against Peter’s leg. The water’s getting colder, so Peter reaches over to turn it off. Turns out the shower didn’t do much good, because Wade’s leaking slick down his legs again, spunk caught on the corner of his mouth. Peter reaches into the crevasse of Wade’s ass, one finger dipping into his slick. It’s warm and wet and makes Peter shudder all over again, hard and panting. “’S this okay?” His tongue feels heavy, his voice slurring like he’s drunk. And maybe he is, a little bit, drunk off the omega heat in the air, off Wade so pretty and pliant against him. Wade’s been in heat since before Peter even got here, but it’s so much more potent now, now that Wade’s content and open and pouring off waves of the sweetest of smells.

“Mm, yes, yes, could you – your fingers? Please?” Wade squirms, pressing his ass back into Peter’s hand. “Alpha?”

And Peter’s – Peter’s not sure how anyone’s ever been able to resist one Wade Winston Wilson, who’s got the sweetest mouth and the sweetest scent, who says _alpha_ like it’s a sweet, sweet prayer. Somehow, he gets them dried off and back to the nest, thoughts of food long gone in the wake of Wade’s heat scent. Wade lays on his back, legs spread wide in the dark, slick dampening the sheets under him. Peter touches a light fingertip at his opening, rubbing that slick spot in slow circles, Wade whining under him. He’s never been with a male omega, never knew they could get so wet. But it’s gotta be the most arousing sight in the world, to watch as his finger is slowly taken in, slowly accepted into warm pulsing heat. This is just _night one_ , and he’s already cum… more times than he can remember, and they haven’t even gone all the way yet.

“Such a pretty omega,” Peter murmurs, his finger moving in and out while Wade writhes and moans. “You’re so damn sexy it’s hard to think straight. Look at you, taking my finger so well. I could cum from just watching you. Think you can take another for me, pretty Wade?”

“Ooh, please, yes, please, y-you’re such a tease, Petey.”

Peter smiles. Adds another finger, and another soon after, because Wade’s so wet it’s an easy slide. He wraps his free hand around Wade, because it’s impossible to resist, and Wade gasps out, pleased and undone, “Ooh, yes, Petey, more.” At that point, the world could fall down around them, and Peter probably wouldn’t notice.

And as it happens, while they’re warm and content in Wade’s nest, exploring each other, the world outside the window sort of does fall down around them.

But they’re both too busy to notice.


	5. A Siren Blares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me, warning for truly evil cliffhanger, I am THE WORST. But I'm sad, and had to get all these emotions out, and Wade's perspective is a good outlet for bad emotions, as it turns out, but then I needed a break from the emotions so I HAD to stop there, I could NOT go on - 
> 
> please don't kill me  
> okay byee

  1. A Siren Blares



-

-

-

What’s hard _not_ to notice is the sudden barrage of Baby Got Back.

Wade groans, and not just because the four fingers knuckle deep inside him – _finally getting somewhere_ – retreat with a slick squelch at the sound. He whines at the loss, asshole clenching and _empty_ , and it feels like such a blow that he almost misses the alarm on pretty Pete’s face in the dark of the bedroom. But Pete’s like a fucking beacon and Wade can’t not look at him, and when he sees the wide eyes and panic, he reaches for him. “’S just my phone,” he says, mind a whirlwind of rage and horniness, all aimed at Weasel. Well, the rage part. Definitely not the horniness. Gross. Nobody else would be calling Deadpool’s private phone, and even _if_ the whole goddamn world’s ending, he’s already planning Weasel’s demise. Ooh, it’ll be _bloody_ and _slow_ for interrupting the _glory_ that was assplay with Peter.

“You should answer it,” Peter says, which is not at all what Wade wanted to hear.

“Nooo.” He whines again, spreads his legs wider. “Want your fingers back.”

The ringtone cuts off, the abrupt silence staggering. Wade wiggles and wags his nonexistent eyebrows at the alpha sitting in between his spread legs, a clear come-hither look if there ever was one. But Pete doesn’t come hither. Instead, he rubs a slick hand over one of Wade’s trembling thighs. His voice is more serious, now. “Trust me, there’s nothing I’d want more. If it’s nothing, I swear you’ll get more than just my fingers back. But I have a feeling you really need to call whoever that was back.”

Baby Got Back makes them both jump when it suddenly blares again.

Peter twists and reaches for the phone, this time, where it’d been so haphazardly discarded on the floor before his alpha arrived. It’s still singing that jaunty tune about getting sprung with a round thing in your face… Wade usually likes hearing that song. Reminds him of Spidey, whose ass he considered the best in the universe all the way up to the point where he got to see and _grab_ Peter Parker’s. Peter’s body heat moves with him as he stretches for the phone, and Wade’s eyes start to prickle.

Wade – well, nobody ever called Wade emotionally stable. Is it any surprise that he kind of wants to cry right now? This whole day’s felt like some weird ass fever dream hallucination that can’t possibly be real, except for that it _has_ to be real because the voices have been dead silent since Peter showed up and they’ve _never_ gone silent during an actual hallucination and –

This is where it all goes south, isn’t it?

Peter’s been an _angel_. He smells like the holy grail. Like a warm new sweater on Christmas eve, like sunshine and daisies and butter mellow… like safety, and arousal, arousal _aimed at Wade_ , who knows very well how much he looks like he’s an inside-out avocado. But Peter’s been able to see past his horrible exterior, somehow, and somehow see past his horrible interior, too, and still seems to find his omega scent appealing. Somehow. He’s had something of a pipe-dream big C Crush on Spider-Man for years, now, but even that feeling pales in comparison to the way Peter Parker smiles at him, cuddles him, _calls him pretty_. It’s like he created this magical boy on the Sims, just for him. He’s known the alpha for less than a day but it’s already big C Crush levels of toxic dependence. Wade isn’t sure he’ll ever get enough of him.

But this – this is where it all goes south.

Nothing good ever lasts long. Wade sort of expected _this_ good thing to last longer than one night, granted, but perhaps the better something is, the quicker it leaves.

He kind of wants the voices to come back. He’s getting _poetic_.

Maybe Peter really didn’t like the feel of him, after all. The phone’s a good excuse to stop. Hell, who’s he kidding? _Of course_ Peter didn’t like the feel of him. He’s a _male omega_. It’s absolutely _disgusting_ how his slick comes out his asshole. Not natural. Even a saint like Peter would be turned off by it. Gay guys want actual men, women want actual men, and Wade’s never going to be that. He’s – in between. Livin’ in that uncharted gray.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, _disgusting_ , Wade closes his legs, curls up a bit and watches Peter finally find the phone underneath his discarded jeans. He’s trying to ignore how slick he is, and how that slick keeps on coming, trying to ignore that emptiness in the pit of his stomach that’s making his chest hurt. He wonders how Peter plans to get out of this one. Which excuse he’ll use to skedaddle. Or maybe he won’t make up an excuse at all. He seems too nice for that. Maybe it’ll be the gentlest of let-downs. Peter wishing him the best, letting him down easy. Joke’s on him because there’s literally zero chance this’ll feel easy. Wade’s already picked out which gun he’ll use to reset after this goes belly-up. Bob, probably. Bob’s been a good gun.

Peter looks at the screen of the blaring phone. Wade watches the way his eyes widen, sees the hitched breath. He sits up a little at the alarm on Pete’s face, uncurls. But Peter doesn’t hand Wade his own phone, no. He just answers it.

“What’s wrong?” Peter says as soon as it’s on his ear.

Wade sits all the way up, now. Who’d be calling _Peter_ on _his_ phone?

“ _Who_?” Peter exclaims then. “Why’s he – well, no. Yeah, that sounds – pretty bad. No, don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault. Everything’s going to be okay, you know the Avengers – well, yea, I probably do need to get there. But I’m – yeah, I know. It’ll be okay. I’ll let you know what we need. Probably gonna keep calling from Wade’s phone. Yeah.” Peter listens for another second, then says a soft, “Love you too,” and hangs up.

He stares at the dark phone in his hand. Clutching it a little too tight.

Wade’s stuck on only one thing. “You’re _leaving_?”

Peter jerks his head up to look at him, then, his face stricken. “Wade –”

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” Wade can’t seem to hear anything. His ears are ringing, and he feels – he feels – he shakes his head and grabs a pillow, hugs it. “It’s all White and Yellow’s fault – they left the moment I got a good whiff of you, pretty little alpha, but I can’t fucking think straight without them, I can’t believe this whole – this whole – this whole night. Was something my mind cooked up, hallucinated the whole thing, or maybe I’m dead, but then where’re White and Yellow?” Is he _crying_? Why the _fuck_ is he _crying_? Omega bitch ass hormones can go to hell, this is –

“– Wade, ‘m right here, ‘m not going anywhere –”

His eyes are screwed shut. If he opens them, he’s not sure what he’ll see. Not sure if it’ll be hell, or the apartment, or the nest, or the ice box, not sure what’s real, what’s not – “This night’s been too good to be true. Knew it all along, but – but _fuck_ if it didn’t feel good to pretend someone wanted me. Shit, I don’t even want me.”

“ – _not_ a hallucination, right here, come back, _please_ Wade –”

“If you’re real, you pretended – shit, _really well_. A plus effort. Made your bosses proud, hired alpha.” Wade’s eyes are open now. He lifts his head to see Peter Parker right in front of him, a truly horrible sight, because he’s _crying_ , his tousled brown hair’s a mess from the sex and still a little damp from the shower, curling at the ends, and he’s crying, reaching for Wade, who sees his hand coming and flinches back. He never really knew Peter, but the temptation of an alpha who spoke such pretty words to Wade, who cuddled and rubbed his skin, who didn’t throw up, didn’t even flinch away at the sight of his skin, his _fucking skin_ –

Trust isn’t in Deadpool’s DNA.

Maybe it used to be, pre-weapon X, but that time’s fuzzy at best and erased at worst. There aren’t a lot of big things Deadpool gets serious about, anymore. Like, what’s the point, right? He can’t die. Cut off an arm and it grows right back. Empty a clip into his back and he’s right as rain the next day. Throw up on his feet because his face looks like a giant festering scab, well, Wade can’t judge. He can’t stomach himself either, hence the 24/7 full-body suit. His life is this empty endless, pointless thing. So why get serious? The truth is, being unable to die sucks all the purpose out of living. There’s no sense of urgency. There’s no point in making or meeting goals. Why care about doing anything when there’s all the time in the world to do it? It’s even _worse_ being unable to die _and_ being horribly disfigured and legitimately, certifiably insane. At least all those vampire pricks in all the stories get to blend into society and lead as many normal lives as they want. They get companionship and sex and intimacy and laughter and –

Deadpool gets the boxes.

That’s – that’s it. For all eternity, that’s all he’s got to look forward to. And even _they’ve_ –

[You’re no prize either, pal.]

– abandoned him… Wade jerks his head up, wide-eyed. “White??”

[[You were happy, dipshit.]]

[Yeah, why’d you have to go and ruin it? That was the _best_ nap –]

[[I was dreaming about anal and taco Tuesdays.]]

[Ha! Got you beat, I was dreaming about anal _with Spidey_ and taco Tuesdays.]

[[Mine could have been about him, too, I didn’t specify –]]

[If it’d been with Spidey, you would have specified.]

[[… yeah, that ass, though.]]

[Pete’s cute too… I mean not right now, pretty sure you traumatized him.]

[[Look at all that snot, barf! And did his eyes always glow red like that?]]

[Ooh, Peter’s _pissed_.]

[[And is that – oomf.]]

Wade squeaks right along with Yellow, suddenly smooshed face first into Peter’s neck, who’s got his arms wrapped around him and has pulled him forcefully against him. Wade sucks in an instinctual deep breath, nosing at the alpha’s neck, scenting because it’s the only option in this position. The deep, rich musk is – is still safety, somehow. Wade breathes deep, again. He mumbles something into the curve of Peter’s collarbone, but honestly even he’s not sure what he’s saying.

Then Peter’s hands are on his shoulders, grip firm as he moves him away from his neck. Wade whines at the loss. Another loss.

But Pete’s just trying to make eye contact.

And holy hell, his eyes _are_ red. Glowing red, that pretty warm brown completely overtaken by it. They don’t look angry, though, White was wrong about that. They look – frenzied. Focused on making Wade’s eyes meet his. Firm.

“You back with me, Wade?” Peter says, his voice more rumbly than before. “Omega?

“You are… so hot right now.” Wade’s pretty sure that’s the most important thing he could have said in this moment of extreme tension. Peter’s grip on his shoulders tightens. Wade tries again, “And your eyes are – a little scary, which is also hot. I just hope they’re not literally hot, like a Superman death ray sort of hot, because that might be the wrong universe but I’ve been through way too many crossovers not to expect a random Superman insertion.”

[Ha, _insertion_.]

Peter’s mouth quirks up. “Your eyes are glowing, too. Gold.” His hand slides from Wade’s shoulder up his neck until it cups one of his cheeks, the pad of his thumb brushing over obvious tear tracks. “I don’t think mine have ever done this before… you bring the alpha out of me. You’re okay, Wade. I’m not leaving you.”

“But you said –”

“That was MJ on the phone, from Omega Advocates.” That shuts Wade up fast. Probably should have gotten the whole story before he let his whole universe start crumbling down around him. Oops. “I didn’t bring my phone here, but she knows how to get in touch when she needs to… it’s sort of a last resort. Emergencies only. It goes against everything in me to leave one of my omegas during their heats.” Peter pauses for just a second to press a quick kiss against Wade’s brow, thumb still moving slow circles on his face. Even that smallest contact has Wade shivering from the pleasure of it. Peter locks eyes again. Says a slow, careful, “I don’t know if you’ll believe me right now, but it’s especially impossible to leave _you_. You’re – I’m pretty sure you’re my – _mine_. If you’d have me.”

Wade’s whole sorry existence seems to flash before his eyes. He’s trembling all over again, a wide-eyed mess. Something in him is _screaming_ too good to be true, too good to be true. Both boxes agree with that something, suddenly more vocal than they’ve ever been, yelling so much Wade can’t hear his own rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Why me?” He doesn’t actually want to know – doesn’t actually want to hear this. Peter’s going to laugh in his face for thinking for even a second that he was serious. Nobody would pick _him_ , not willingly, and especially not someone as kind and gentle and strong and _cuddly_ as this catch right in front of him. He tries to harden himself to the inevitable fallout of asking, tries not to feel so – so goddamn omega soft. “I’m – horrifying to look at, for one. Male, for another. A _male omega_. Nobody in their right mind would – not that I think you’re crazy, Pete, but – okay, yes, I totally think you’re crazy right now. And that’s coming from _me_.”

Peter’s glowing red narrows. Wade instinctively shrinks back.

“You,” Peter says, all rumbly again, “are _not_ horrifying to look at. Stop insulting yourself. I kind of adore you, asshole.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Wade points out. Because it _doesn’t_.

“It does if you – shit.” Peter keeps his hands on him, never lets go for even a second, as he moves them so they’re more comfortable, sitting side by side, Peter’s hand trailing down his arm to interlace their fingers. He gives his hand a squeeze. It’s nothing Wade’s ever experienced before, holding hands with somebody. His hand’s probably clammy, not to mention textured from the scars, how can Pete _enjoy_ this – ooh, but Wade does. It makes him feel warm, right in the jellies. He squeezes back despite everything. Despite how little sense it makes that a hired alpha would – would call Wade _his_ after less than a _day_. And how fucked up is it that Wade wants to say it _back_? Doesn’t take much to win his affections –

[Face it, you’re easy.]

[[Standards are the lowest… but you couldn’t do much better than Peter. He’s like the bees knees. Take the good luck and roll with it.]]

[Don’t trust it! He’s up to something. He probably knows who we really are and wants to harvest our organs.]

[Yikes.]

“I – um. I think I need to confess something,” Peter says then, uncertainty and hesitation all the sudden overtaking all of that alpha confidence he’d been using since he eyes started glowing. They’re still glowing, but a softer red as he stares at their interlocked hands. Wade’s _definitely_ got sweaty palms now, sure he’s about to hear Peter Parker’s diabolical plan to harvest their regenerating organs. Yellow and White are debating about it all the while. Why did he want those two back, again?

“You’re not planning to harvest our organs, right?” Wade breaks the silence first.

Peter nudges his shoulder, laughing a little hysterically. “Wow, ‘Pool, if _that’s_ your first thought when I say I’ve got a confession, I’m afraid my actual confession’s gonna sound a little lame.”

Wade whooshes out a breath. “Well that’s a relief, White was worri-” He breaks off, replaying those words, tensing in an instant. He doesn’t let go of Peter’s hand, though. Not sure why. “You just called me Pool.”

“Yeah, I –” Peter smiles, a sheepish thing. “I didn’t know it’d be you when the company sent me here, I honestly didn’t know, not until I heard your voice, and well, I didn’t know if I should say anything, at least not during your heat. I wanted your heat to be,” he sighs, “well, perfect. Blew that spectacularly, of course.”

“You know I’m Deadpool.” It’s not a question. His grip on Peter’s hand is tight. Bruising. Peter winces but doesn’t pull away. He nods. A tiny nod. But Wade can see it. Wade could see it even if it were pitch black in here. Even if their eyes weren’t both still glowing alpha red and omega gold.

“I hope it’s not – I hope it’s not bad news.” Peter swallows.

“Sorry Pete,” he says. He sounds more casual than he feels. “But most news related to Deadpool is bad news. You weren’t a mark. Not another merc. I don’t know you from Sister Margaret’s… so who are you, hm? Pretty face like yours, I’d remember it. But it makes sense now, all this. Is that what this has all been? Revenge?”

“Reve – no, God, Wade –”

“It’s creative, as far as revenge goes. Get me attached before you stab me in the back. All those compliments sure were a nice touch. Bet they were hard to get out, weren’t they? Bet it drove you _nuts_ having to tell me how,” Wade sneers. Why is he still holding Peter’s hand? “ _pretty_ I am.”

Peter groans, exasperated, but Wade’s not done. “Bet you thought I wouldn’t kill you, since I don’t do that anymore. Spidey’s got me whipped, Deadpool’s gone soft, blah blah blah. I don’t think you realized, though, that _nobody_ knows Deadpool’s an omega. Nobody _alive_ , anyway. Puts us in a little bit of a pickle there, don’tcha think?”

“Christ, Wade. I’m Spider-Man!”

And Wade… Wade yanks his hand out of Peter’s, wondering if he’s just been stabbed through, for all the white-hot pain. The boxes fall silent.

And a siren blares from the streets down below.


	6. There's Aliens Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just so grateful to you all for commenting - being stuck in a room all by myself for a week straight now has driven me mental. The fanfic community is keeping me sane. Love you guys
> 
> Hopefully we're gearing up for some action in the next few chapters. I'm itching for some action.

  1. There’s Aliens Afoot



-

-

-

He screwed this up.

“I’ve liked you as Deadpool for a long time,” he says. Peter hadn’t really grasped the fullness of his feelings for his partner in crime-stopping until – well, until he’d met him as Wade Wilson, but looking back it’s been there a long time. Wade’s pulled away from him, shaky legs hanging over the side of the mattress as he clutches the sheets in two fists and stares a hard, blank stare down at the dark floor. But his eyes are still glowing golden. That’s got to be a good sign, right? Alphas and omegas eyes don’t change like this for just anyone. Peter’s certainly never seen through this reddened haze before. He’d seen Uncle Ben’s eyes like this, but only once. Other than that, he can’t say he’s ever seen another alpha red eye activated. It’s special.

His heart’s racing, his whole body itching to – to fight, or fuck, or _move_.

They’re running out of time.

But this – this is more important, still.

“C’mon, ‘Pool, think about it,” he can feel himself begging. “You’ve been one of my best friends for years. I don’t think I even laugh _at all_ unless I’m around you. Patrol’s more – just _more_ when you’re there. I was fine going it alone, but then you showed up and you wouldn’t _stop_ showing up and we’re – sort of awesome together, it turns out. And then tonight – we _fit_. Don’t we? You have to at least know how much you mean to Spider-Man. You have to at least trust that.”

Wade shakes his head.

And Peter’s desperate. “I know you’ve liked Spider-Man. You at least – you at least acted like you did. I’d understand if you think plain old Peter Parker’s – disappointing. That I’m probably not the sort of alpha you were expecting him to be –”

“Aw shit,” Wade mutters to himself. Peter shuts up and waits.

Finally, _finally_ Wade turns back to look at Peter, who’s still sitting in the middle of the bed, in the middle of the pile of pillows and colorful unicorn plushies, no doubt looking as pitiful and anxious as he feels. Wade takes one wide-eyed look at him and shakes his head again, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, maybe. He scrubs a hand over his face and looks at Peter again, a slow glance up and down, down and up, taking him all in. Peter tries not to feel self-conscious with all that focus on him, tries to keep still and let Wade figure out what’s next. This moment feels – charged. Important. Like it’s either going to make them or it’s going to break them both. Then Wade lunges with all of his body weight over the pillows and into Peter, who catches him only because he has the reflexes of a superhero, letting out a surprised oomph as he’s smooshed into the wall of pillows behind him. Wade grabs Peter’s face in his hands and meets his eyes, searching. He’s not sure what the pretty omega gold is looking for, but he moves his head a little to nudge their noses together, feeling the warmth of Wade’s hands on his face, feeling the tremors that give away at least some of Wade’s fear.

Wade nudges his nose back and kisses him.

Their mouths slot together like two puzzle pieces connecting. Wade instantly deepens it, tongue searching for tongue, biting down on Peter’s bottom lip with just enough pressure to send chills down his spine. Peter bites back, just a nibble, but it makes Wade whine. He moves his hands away from Peter’s face as they lip lock, slides them down Peter’s body, one hand gripping his hip and the other searching for – ah. Wade grips Peter’s ass in hand, squeezes. Peter moans and loses himself in – in everything, the kiss, how they breathe together, the sensation of Wade’s hands on him, his scent and focus and _devouring_ lips –

When Wade pulls back, Peter’s lips are redder, swollen, slick. He feels a little dazed.

“I’m fucking terrified right now,” Wade whispers the words, panting, forehead pressed against Peter’s.

Peter – well, Peter can relate. “Me too.”

Wade huffs out a laugh. “You don’t get it, baby boy.” And oh, how good does that feel, to hear Wade call him the nickname he’s only ever called Spider-Man? If he didn’t need to hear what his omega’s about to say, he might have kissed him again right then and there. “I’ve been half in love with Spidey since he – _you_ – let me tag along on that first patrol. Didn’t even try to get me arrested or shot, and you webbed that baddie away from me when he was gonna stab me, you remember?”

Peter does remember it. He remembers how Deadpool had fought three of the bad guys in hand to hand, hardly breaking a sweat as he fended them off and simultaneously chatted their ears off. He elbowed one in the face, then grabbed the man by his shirt and hurled his heaving body into another one, asking them why they even tried robbing a store in New York since it was the superhero headquarters of the world. He remembers Deadpool suggesting a quaint little town a few hours away as a viable alternative. Spider-Man had been dealing with several of his own baddies, increasingly annoyed that Deadpool kept giving those goons _ideas_. Deadpool was just saying, “But don’t go robbing anymore mom and pop shops, you hear? Take on the big chains, man, have a heart –” when one of them pulled out a switchblade and very nearly managed to stick it into Deadpool’s lower back.

Mostly, he remembers Deadpool’s shocked, wide mask eyes when Peter webbed the guy away before the knife could penetrate. He remembers how Deadpool tried to talk him out of doing that kind of thing in the future. “I can’t die, Spidey,” he’d said later that night when they were sitting on a rooftop, waiting for more trouble. “You know you don’t gotta worry about me getting hurt, right? Should use your gook to protect yourself. I promised I wouldn’t distract you.”

“I’m not gonna let you get _stabbed_ , man,” Peter had said. “Are you crazy? And don’t call it that. It’s web fluid.”

Deadpool snickered into a gloved hand. “ _Fluid_. Can’t see how that’s any better –”

“ _Web_ fluid –”

“– but okay, feel free to use your _fluids_ all over me.” Deadpool waggled the white panda eyes of his mask and made obscene hand gestures, clearly miming somebody jacking off. Spider-Man spluttered out a laugh, his face hot under the mask, and webbed Deadpool’s hands together to stop the madness. His new serial killer friend seemed to enjoy _that_ just a little too much, oohing and ahhing over his hands, turning them this way and that to marvel at the way the flickering rooftop bulb light reflected off the webbing. He tried biting the webs off, unsuccessfully. Peter watched, amused, as he then tried every weapon he could reach on them. A knife at his belt. A different knife squirreled away in his boot. Another knife from – somewhere at Deadpool’s hip, hopefully. Spider-Man was about to help him out, but then Deadpool shrugged and twisted his bound hands with a sickening _snap_ of bone.

He let the webbing fall to the rooftop, grinning through the mask, triumphant, one of his hands just – dangling. Spider-Man gaped at him.

“Did you just _break your wrist_?”

“Sure did!”

“Doesn’t that _hurt_?”

“Sure does!” Deadpool shook the dangling limb. It waved in the air like a limp rag. “But back to the matter _at hand_ –” Deadpool giggled. “You don’t _have_ to save me, Spidey. That’s almost the only perk in working with me – I’m good at taking a bullet. Or a knife. Or an explosive. Look look.” He grabbed his broken wrist with his other hand and yanked it up until it _popped_. When he shook it out, this time, it didn’t flop around uselessly anymore. He waggled his newly righted fingers in Spider-Man’s face and said, “Basically, you can throw me at all the bad guys, and I’ll take the damage while you save the damsels.”

Spider-Man had shoved him, hard, in the shoulder. “Don’t do that if it hurts! That is _not_ how this is going to go. Just because you can take a bullet doesn’t mean you’re going to. Not if I can help it. And you wanted me to teach you how to be a hero, right? So you gotta be the one to save the damsels, too. It’s _required_.”

Now, Peter’s eyes are stinging all over again, thinking about that scene in a whole new light. Even that far back, Deadpool had been – he’d hated himself, hadn’t he? And Peter just never connected those dots. Instead of saying any of that, though, Peter just nods and says, “Yeah, course I remember. You made fun of my webbing.”

“Well at least now you’re not going around calling it _fluid_.”

They both smile at each other in the dark, tentative. But then Wade sighs again, his breath hot on Peter’s face. “I’ve been half in love with Spidey for years… but you – _Spidey_ you – were never supposed to see me like this.”

“Like what?” Peter says.

“Like – shit, without my suit on, for one. I’m a giant scab! Spidey was always supposed to see me as – as handsome.”

“You’re handsome without the suit on,” Peter insists.

Wade ignores his words entirely. “And you were never supposed to know I’m an omega. I’m – I don’t wanna lose Spidey,” he whispers.

“You’re _not_ losing me.” Peter kind of wants to shake him.

“Omega males are gross,” Wade says, as if reading from some report. Factual. “People hate us. Even my parents couldn’t stand the smell of me, even when I was a kid. It’s like ducks. They lay a bunch of eggs, but then sometimes one of the eggs turns out rotten. You crack it open and it’s just this oozing rancid stench bomb that makes everybody run away holding their nose, or sometimes they hurl chunks. That’s me. Any male omega, really, but _especially_ me. Nobody who’s ever known what I am has ever – well, it’s just not gone well. Hence them all being a little dead? But I can’t kill Spidey, and I wouldn’t want to, but –” His eyes close and he shakes his head, huffing. “It feels – unsafe for anybody to know about me. And to have Spidey roped into all that? It feels like I’ve already lost him.”

“Geez, honey. Just – c’mere.” Peter swallows. He sets his hands on Wade’s neck, pulls him in so that the omega can scent him again. Wade does, immediately nosing at his neck, pulling in deep drags of him. Peter’s shaking as he nuzzles back. He can’t stand that hopeless hunch to Wade’s shoulders, can’t stand to see his eyes clenched shut against all the horrible things that just came out of his mouth. Mostly, he can’t stand every single person in Wade’s life who’s ever made him feel this way, starting but certainly not ending with his asshole parents. They never talked about their parents before. It’s probably for the best, though, since just this tiny bit of insight Wade gave makes Peter want to track them down and choke them out. Who couldn’t stand the smell of their own kid? Who lets their omega son grow up thinking that he’s a rotten egg for being born omega? _Who does that?_

“I like you, Wade,” he whispers it into the man’s skin. “When you can’t trust my words about it, trust my scent, yeah? You’re not losing Spider-Man. Spider-Man kind of wants to – I mean _I_ kind of want to – I want _you_. And even if this all goes belly-up somehow, _which it won’t_ , you’re still Spider-Man’s best friend. Who else am I gonna rescue old lady’s purses with?”

Wade huffs into his neck, clutching him around the middle. “Lame, Parker,” he mumbles.

Peter grins, nudging him with his nose. “You totally rescue old lady’s purses now, big bad Deadpool.”

“I don’t even ask ‘em for commission or nothin’,” Wade agrees. He sighs. “How the mighty have fallen.”

More sirens sound from outside, speeding by. Wade ignores the sound, but Peter tenses, his spidey sense on full alert, suddenly reminded that they probably need to talk about – “Um, Wade?”

“Hmm?”

“So, when MJ called…”

-

-

-

He’s still slick, and the suit itches and pulls everywhere it touches him, his skin hot and clammy and even _more_ disgusting than usual, and boy is that not something he thought possible prior to the world’s worst timed alien invasion in the history of alien invasions. Peter helps him into his boots, pulling on the leather like a pro, and does Pete look good down on his knees in front of him or is that just the heat talking?

[Both, definitely both.]

[[For once you are not wrong.]]

Wade flexes his calves, panting because _geez_ is it _hard_ being clothed right now, but already he feels more like himself, less exposed, less vulnerable. He knows how good his abs look in the Deadpool suit, knows the black and red accentuates his broad shoulders and gives him more of an air of danger and less of an air of – pathetic. When Petey-Pie finishes pulling his boots on, looks up at him through his fringe of dark, untamed bed head, Wade flexes his biceps and grins, eating up that alpha arousal he can damn near taste in the fragrance of the air, can see in Pete’s pretty brown eyes. Wade can admit when he’s an idiot, and, well, he’s been an idiot the whole night through, pretty much. He blames his omega side, blames the heat. It’s very hard to think through the haze of unsatisfied hormones coursing through his cancer blood. Having the suit on makes it a little easier, because at least he’s less likely to make people hurl chunks now. It feels like he slid into somebody else’s skin and now he can just – be.

“Can’t believe you let us lay around emoting when there’s aliens afoot.”

“Excuse me, but we needed to _emote_ ,” Peter grumps. He stands up and stretches, still completely nude, and Deadpool ogles him openly because he’s pretty sure that’s allowed now, and also it’s literally impossible not to when Spider-Man’s hot bod is two feet in front of him, stretching out like a big cat, all firm muscles and pretty pink nipples and –

Peter pulls his clothes on, too. Deadpool sighs at the profound loss.

“Also,” Peter says as he yanks his dirty sweater back over his head. “They’re not _afoot_ yet. I don’t think. Hopefully. I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re en route, but Thor’s weird rainbow speed travel gave us a head start on preparing for them.”

“A head start you wasted,” Deadpool points out. “Emoting with me.”

Honestly, Deadpool feels a little pleased by it. Even with impending world-ending alien hoards beating down Earth’s door, Spider-Man chose to cuddle him instead of join the other heroes in strategizing for the attack. And Spidey’s, like, the world’s best hero. Always so quick to jump, always so quick to save the day. If Spider-Man wastes time comforting an insane omega bitch, then surely he must care an awful lot about said insane omega bitch. All bets are still off for how he’ll act around Wade after his heat-scent wears off, but at least with omega slick coating his inner thighs, Deadpool’s somehow an attractive prospect to the super spider. He’s going to roll with it until it inevitably rolls off the side of a cliff and crashes into a fiery ravine. Only then will he kill himself a bunch and listen to the boxes shout their insults. If anything could kill him, he wonders, briefly, if a broken heart could. Certainly not a _real_ broken heart – he’s tried that before. No bueno. The heart muscle knits itself back together as well as the rest of his shitty body. But maybe a metaphorical heartbreak might…?

Let’s hope.

Deadpool’s not sure he can stand an eternity where Spidey hates him.

Peter picks up his discarded jeans and makes a face at the slick crusted on the front of them, but he slides them on anyway, shooting Deadpool a serious face as he says, “It wasn’t a waste of time. My alpha physically can’t leave you right now, so it made the most sense to fix us before moving on to the aliens. I call that a solid strategy.”

_Us_. Deadpool bats his nonexistent eyelashes, tingly all over.

And then Peter’s finally unwrapping the bandages around his wrists, letting them uncurl and fall to the floor. He winces as they unravel, clearly uncomfortable. Deadpool takes that as his queue to finally try standing. Gotta happen sometime. Being able to stand would be an especially helpful skill when facing down fucking _aliens_ in the near future. He wobbles a bit, shaky, legs feeling like jelly from the heat that’s got his whole body temperature soaring into the danger zone. But he’s a professional. He can totally function like a regular person during a heat, can totally ignore the warmth pooling in his belly, the burn of an empty hole –

Deadpool shuffles over to Peter, holding back a whimper.

This – this might be a problem.

Turns out, his heat isn’t the only problem.

Peter’s wrists are – _wrecked_. Swollen glands, dark and oozing, bright red with infection and the smell of decay. Deadpool takes one in hand, wide-eyed, cooing when the alpha flinches back. “I gotcha,” Deadpool says, all omega soft. The boy relaxes in his grip, lets him cradle the injured wrist close and inspect it. The veins around the wound stand out in stark contrast to his skin, all angry blue lines that trail out from a gruesome looking hole. “The hell happened here, pretty Petey?”

“It’s – Spider-Man.” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. Wade clucks at him, pressing a quick kiss to the palm of his hand, as close as he’ll get to the wound itself, careful not to hurt his boy. Peter stammers a bit, trying to explain. “I usually make the webbing I use for crime fighting in the lab, but, uh – I haven’t had time? So I had to use my natural webbing, with the dogs? But, well, you can see why I try _not_ to do that. And then I almost came straight here from that mess, so I still don’t have web shooters available, and there’s no chance in hell I’ll be able to use _these_ …”

Deadpool nods. “So let’s recap.”

“Recap?”

“Spidey’s webs are out of commish,” he says. “And Deadpool’s in heat.”

Peter seems to have caught on. “And there’s aliens afoot,” he adds to the recap.

“You know, maybe the other heroes can take the reins on this one. Not that I wouldn’t want to slice and dice some aliens with my bestie, I mean that sounds like more fun than cinco de mayo. I was so pissed the last time aliens wormholed into New York like a giant angry piñata without even inviting me! Like, the nerve, amirite?” He’d been halfway around the world at the time, a sleazy little red dress and heels on, riding a pole like a pro with his fancy blond wig twirling in the air around him. Working a merc job, of course, which paid the bills just fine and he’d had a good time twerking it. But man, he’d have loved to have diced up some aliens.

But now?

He can’t protect Spidey like this. He can barely fucking walk from one side of the room to the other. If Spidey were in tip top shape, maybe, but he can’t even use his gook, plus his alpha’s all distracted over Wade’s heat. It’d be a mess to try and enter the ring now.

[The Aveng-dicks have enough heavy hitters. Let them deal with the aliens.]

[[But I really REALLY wanna smash some squishy alien faces in!]]

[Unless they’re the cute cuddly kind of alien who’s zipping on over to Earth for a short slumber party to braid hair and gossip about intergalactic boy scouts, I’m pretty sure they’d cream us right now. Look at the big guy, his slick’s running down his legs! Talk about uncomfortable.]

[[Why is White being logical right now? What is this??]]

[It’s a conspiracy to keep you away from the aliens, that’s what! Logic tastes funny, eek.]

[[Well cut that shit out! This is our chance for an Avenger team up!]]

[Bet they didn’t ask for us. They want Spidey.]

[[Well we’re a package deal! Spideypool! Spidey team up powers activate! Also, if the world’s ending, they’re gonna want us. We’re pretty useful for those sorts of gigs. Remember volume 9??]]

[Was that the road trip with the big bugs? ‘Cuz that was my favorite spidey team up.]

[[No idiot, that was volume 8! And why was that your favorite? We didn’t even get to see the world’s largest ball of twine.]]

Peter’s lips on his own snap him back to reality. He moans into the kiss, melts a little, every nerve on fire from that little bit of contact. The boxes shut up, and isn’t that a neat trick? He chases Pete’s mouth when he tries to pull away, pecking him and giggling. Peter pecks back, voice all rumbly and low again when he says, “I don’t think this sounded like a sit out-able situation, ‘Pool. It sounded like an all-hands-on-deck type deal. We’ve got some advanced warning, at least, so maybe we can make it work. A lot of people died last time –”

“Not to mention all the property damage.”

Peter bops him on the nose. “Right, that too. I think if we try to sit this one out, the world might really end.” His sudden smile is the sweetest damn thing Deadpool’s seen. Now that he’s looking for it, he can see Spidey in that smile, his lips curved the same way Spidey’s does when his mask is pulled up when they’re eating. It’s wild to think that he’s kissed those lips. _Spidey’s_ lips. Wild to think that Spidey would probably let him do it again. Peter clears his throat and says, “And I kind of like the world, especially now. See, I’ve kinda just found my omega, if he’s crazy enough to want me despite the fact that I fudged up our first heat together –”

Deadpool sees the opening there and jumps in before Peter can finish that thought. “Lucky for you but I _am_ crazy enough. Also, this is hands down the best heat I’ve ever had, even with the crying and the humiliation and the blue balls and the aliens, so. I’d say you’ve got a shot with me, alpha.”

“Yeah?”

“Well duh.” Deadpool ducks his head to kiss Pete again, feather light and quick, giddy at the notion that he can do that whenever he wants, that Pete seems to want it too. For now, anyway. “As soon as these alien fucks get fucked,” he promises, voice aiming for seductive purr but probably landing somewhere a little too threatening. What can he say? He’s a little pissed off with the timing of these aliens. “I want _you_ to fuck _me_. Deal?”

Peter swallows, darting forward to kiss him again. He breaks it off panting, says, “Deal,” like a breathless bargain. Deadpool hasn’t the foggiest idea how they’re going to pull off fighting an alien invasion when he’s in heat and Spidey’s got no webs. But he trusts Spidey. He’s never led them wrong before.

What could go wrong?


	7. This Isn't a Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be summarized in one word: conversation.  
> So. Much. Conversation.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting - the comments break up my morose, lonely little quarantine with just a burst of joy that's so appreciated and so needed. There's been some sad developments pandemic-related in my neck of the woods this week, and I just really really need some good news.  
> Spideypool is always the best news. <3  
> Love you, stay safe, stay sane, read lots of spideypool.

7\. This Isn’t a Team

-

-

-

“No, that’s not a gun in my pocket and yes,” Deadpool says, leering even as he squirms and his crotch gyrates against Pete’s lower back. “I am _very_ happy to see you.”

Peter adjusts his grip, breathing hard. They haven’t even started yet, but already he misses the potent smell of the omega, the scent blockers a complete buzzkill. Their combined smell is still there, a little, clinging to their clothes, but it’s not the same. Like secondhand smoke. His alpha feels restless, needs more. It both helps and hurts to think about how Deadpool must feel, his omega confined during a heat. These imminent aliens _suck._ And if Deadpool keeps humping him the whole way to Stark Tower, they likely won’t make it all the way there. “Do you _know_ how uncomfortable these jeans are right now?”

“I’m wearing _leather_ ,” Deadpool laughs. “Pretty sure I know, honeybuns.”

“At least there’s comfort in uncomfortable solidarity.”

“Ooh, keep talking nerdy to me. Only don’t because this leather really is all sorts of constraining. If you don’t get a move on, then _I’m_ gonna get a move on, and then we’ll really miss the aliens. Because sexy times. Which seems like the best option here, bee tee dubs. You know, let’s just go back to mine and get jiggy with iiii – Holy fuuccckk! Woohoo!”

Deadpool whoops so loud the sound reverberates in Peter’s eardrums, momentarily drowning out the headache that has become his insistently buzzing spidey sense. Deadpool’s clinging to his back like an excited koala bear, holding on for dear life with his arms and legs wrapped around him as Peter parkours to the next rooftop, then takes a running leap for the next one, and the next one, and the next one. They aren’t all the same height, though, the skyline an uneven spread of towering condominiums and shorter office complexes. Peter leaps for the next building – too tall to land on the roof – and catches sticky hands and feet against the brick siding. He crawls his way up to the top, glad for the mandatory city evacuation that’s emptied out all the buildings of potential witnesses. On the streets below is wall to wall dead-stopped traffic, of course, which is why Deadpool’s cab driver friend couldn’t pick them up from the apartment, but with any luck everybody’s too panicked about the aliens to glance up and spot them jumping from building to building.

They land on the fire escape outside Peter’s window so he can suit up and grab some empty web shooters. Deadpool’s never been to Peter’s tiny hole in the wall before, and honestly Peter’s a tad embarrassed by it – Wade’s got such a huge apartment, _two bedrooms!_ , his little studio feels like a stuffy closet in comparison. It _is_ a stuffy closet in comparison. Peter tries to speed-dress so they don’t have to linger there long. Wade doesn’t even come inside. Instead, he plops down on the fire escape and blatantly ogles Peter through the window while he changes, catcalling his earnest appreciation and providing a running commentary.

“He’s got style, he’s got grace,” Wade says with his face sticking inside the window, panda mask eyes wide and curious and focused on Peter rushing to find a less holey suit than the one that’s thrown over the back of his living room chair, discarded from the dog fiasco. “He’s Miss United States! Pretty Peter Parker slides that all-American spandex over a pair of _sinfully_ well-muscled calves. He’s shimmying into it like the finest lady of the night, wish you could see this delightful little dance, folks, and it looks like Spidey _does work commando,_ I repeat _, he does work without underpants,_ this is not a drill – ooh, but this reporter might have misspoke about the grace part, because he loses his balance with one leg in and stumbles onto his cute little tuchus, what an attractive fumble –”

“Really, Wade?”

“Yes, _really_ ,” Wade purrs, all sultry voice, which just _isn’t fair_.

Peter’s scowling as he finally yanks his mask down over his flush-hot face. “At least the spandex is more comfortable. And I don’t _always_ go commando, but I’m sure you’ll agree that these are extenuating circumstances.”

“Something’s extenuating, all right –”

“How? How do you make _everything_ sound dirty? Just, how?”

“I’m a filthy, filthy man, Pete.”

Spider-Man yanks Deadpool further into the window by his katana straps and kisses him hard through both their masks. “Yeah,” he agrees, perpetually breathless, feeling all sorts of stifled and keyed up at the same time, and it’s way harder to smell even traces of their mingled scent through the mask, this is _misery_ – “And I dig it. Scooch on over, big guy.”

He shimmies through the window, officially Spider-Man, now. They take a few minutes on the fire escape for Peter to use his phone and call Aunt May, because she’s being evacuated and he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t give her a ring, she’ll be way more threatening than the aliens. She asks him all the standard questions, her voice more frazzled than usual, tells him all the standard be-careful-and-give-them-hell speeches that always make Peter feel warm. Before they hang up, Peter clears his throat, nudges Deadpool with his shoulder, and stares straight into his mask eyes when he confesses a shy, quiet, “I kind of met someone, Aunt May.”

As he knew it would, the news seems to cheer her up.

Just a little.

She gasps down the line, her frazzled tone giving way to excitement. He can hear cars honking on her end, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. He can practically _see_ her beaming grin through the phone. “My Peter, met someone? Why am I surprised, of course you’d meet someone during the apocalypse. It’s never a bad time for love. What’s her name? Is it the omega you were spending her heat with? We have to have her over for dinner if my apartment survives the alien invasion. If it doesn’t, we can take her out to a nice sit-down restaurant, my treat. You didn’t tell me her name.”

Peter laughs. Deadpool is completely still beside him, the mask unreadable. He seems to be holding his breath. Peter nudges him again, says a soft, _proud_ , “His name’s Wade.”

Aunt May doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, well you tell Wade that I’m taking him to dinner after the invasion’s over. Does he have somewhere to go during all this? He can evacuate with me; I’m joining a few co-workers once we get out of traffic, but I’m sure they’d all be delighted to meet your boyfriend.”

Deadpool’s mask is wide-eyed, now, jaw visibly dropped through the fabric.

Peter reaches over and squeezes his hand. “He’s a super like me –”

“Thank God! I feel a lot better knowing someone’s there to watch your back –”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But thanks, Auntie. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

“Me too.” She sounds pleased as pie. “It’s about time.”

They hang up shortly after, with a lot of be-careful-I-love-yous. Spider-Man gets ready to go, standing up and pocketing the phone. When he reaches down to help Wade up, Wade takes his hand and says, “Now I see where you get it from.”

“Get what?”

“Your – _you._ ” Deadpool swoops a hand and gestures to all of him.

Peter just laughs again, a pleased, happy feeling settling over him. He can picture Wade meeting Aunt May, wining and dining her, regaling her with all sorts of stories – now that he thinks about it, maybe he _shouldn’t_ get those two together… Deadpool climbs aboard his back, making dirty jokes about it all the way up to the point where Peter leaps over the railing of the fire escape and lands in the alley below, making quick work of climbing the next old building to reach the rooftops and keep going. Deadpool clings to him all over again. He spends the entire piggyback ride yelling Tarzan vine-swinging hollers into his ear and rubbing his crotch against the small of Peter’s back. Peter likes having the omega so close, especially since he can’t smell him anymore, but honestly, this is _not_ his favorite method of travel. His ears are ringing by the time they make it to Stark Tower. Peter stands in front of the towering, pristine building with Deadpool hanging on his back, panting and a little shocked they made it all the way here. The doors immediately slide open when they approach, and before they even take a step into the lobby, a mechanized voice with an Irish twang sounds from – somewhere.

“Welcome to the tower, Spider-Man,” she says.

The lobby is completely empty. Peter clutches at Wade’s legs where he’s holding him against him, tensing, and Deadpool’s grip around his neck tightens, head up and alert. Cautiously, he says, “Uh, thanks?”

“The boss has been expecting you.”

“That sounds like something a crime lord would say,” Deadpool mock whispers.

“Wade Winston Wilson, codename Deadpool,” the lady says then. “The boss has you listed as an approved guest of Spider-Man’s.” Deadpool gasps in apparent awe at that, squeezing Peter in his excitement. The voice continues, though, and her mechanized voice whirrs, traces of disapproval easy to pick out. “However, if you had come only yesterday, I would have been able to eject you from the building. I believe you tried to break into the fifty-seventh floor eight years ago? Three windows were destroyed, and one employee lost his life.”

“He fell!” Deadpool immediately defends. Then: “JK, I don’t actually remember that.”

“Why were you trying to break into Stark Industries?” Peter asks.

“I don’t remember, Spidey, I _just said that_. Probably after some weapons; SI used to make some pretty pieces.” He sighs like a starstruck kid, wistful. Then he shrugs. “But I dunno, it honestly could have been because I just wanted to try scaling a tall building, or because it was a Tuesday, or because I wanted to break some windows.”

“How can you not remember?”

“Missions back then all sort of ran together in a drug-induced haze of –”

“Try not to break anymore windows,” the woman in the ceiling says, cutting him off. She sounds entirely unamused and maybe a little scary. “Or kill anyone. I want you to know that I am able to run counter measures should you attempt any malice against anyone in this facility, especially my boss –”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter interrupts her this time. “Is he here? It’s kind of urgent.”

She directs them to a sleek wall that opens into a glass elevator. Peter holds onto Deadpool as he steps into it, adjusting his grip. He’s feeling a little anxious, his spidey sense zinging in his head, heart racing, and not just because he’s walking his vulnerable omega into a room full of super people who don’t historically get along with him. It’s also – out of all the Avengers, he’s never met Mr. Stark. The guy’s never around when the fights get big enough to pull Spider-Man in; he thinks the man moved back to California after – well, Peter’s not entirely sure what all went down between the Avengers, but they definitely had a falling out sometime after the first Battle of New York. Some bits and pieces of footage of them fighting in an airport got leaked and was all over the news for a while, the Captain and Iron Man on opposite sides. News reporters knew nothing, though, and the speculation surrounding their ‘super tantrum’ continues to this day in rag articles and internet debates. Peter never kept up with all that, never asked the Avengers for the truth, never questioned why one of their founding team members never seemed to be around for the fights. He always just assumed that the Avengers as a team got big enough to split their efforts and cover more ground. Iron Man did take on that Mandarin terrorist by himself a while back, didn’t he?

Whatever the case, Peter’s lowkey wanted to meet Iron Man for _years_.

And now, because of impending aliens, he’s on an elevator headed to do just that.

Peter flashes back to his last elevator ride, back in Julie’s apartment building, that dilapidated old box that creaked and jerked to a stop during the blackout. It smelled musky, like old gym socks, and the 1970s circa carpeting looked a little bit like a disco threw up. Was that really only a few days ago? It feels like a lifetime. This elevator doesn’t ding or jostle when they arrive. It glides open like butter, silent as only high-end tech could be, so sleek there aren’t even visible buttons. Peter’s glad they didn’t get stuck in this one, because he can’t even see an opening where he’d have climbed through, not on any of the glass walls, not on the ceiling, nowhere.

When the elevator’s doors part, Spider-Man and Deadpool walk out with all eyes on them.

“I can’t believe you _brought_ him here,” Hawkeye groans from his spot on a huge gray couch, the first to speak. The entire team is here, it looks like, Iron Man himself standing in the red and gold armor near the bar, with all the rest sitting in the middle of the room on three couches. At least Peter _thinks_ that’s really Iron Man, but the faceplate is down, and he can’t be sure it’s not an empty suit, even with the arc reactor glowing on its chest and the eyeholes a bright glowing blue. Thor is wearing his usual armor and red cape, the hammer on the ground beside his feet, but the other heroes are dressed in casualwear. Steve Rogers looks all healed up from the dog scratches, not a bruise in sight on his exposed arms. Hawkeye’s still got a few cuts and scrapes, and Wanda is awake and sitting at stiff attention beside the man. It’d be a little weird if that _were_ really Tony Stark in the suit, now that Peter thinks about it, since none of the other heroes are dressed for immediate battle. It’s probably just an empty shell. Peter lets the disappointment of that thought settle into his bones.

“I for one welcome another warrior to the fray,” Thor says to Hawkeye. He’s the only one who stands and greets them, a hand out for Peter to shake, his broad, hulking form not setting off the spidey sense at all as he grips his hand and pumps it up and down with all the enthusiasm of an ally. “After the trying days I’ve had, you are a welcome sight, Man of Spiders. And who is your comrade?”

Deadpool hops down from Peter’s back before he has the chance to protest. For all the bluster, for all the bravery, he’s still in heat. But he lands on his feet, making a great show of not shaking at all, standing unconcerned, unbothered beside Spider-Man as though nothing at all were wrong. Spider-Man decidedly does _not_ reach back out and pull the merc safely behind him, despite every cell in his body wanting to. He crosses his arms to resist the urge.

“It’s just Spider-Man, Thor. Man of Spiders sounds a little – creepy.”

“I dunno, Spidey,” Deadpool snickers. He’s as tall as Thor, and despite the fact that Peter knows he must still feel shaky, he leaves Peter’s side to throw his arms around Thor, squeezing so tight that Thor laughs and pats him on the back. Deadpool breaks away and shakes the god’s hand, his mask eyes wide with wonder, his smile visible through the fabric stretched around it. “I think it sounds intimidating as fuck. Can you just imagine a man made up of spiders? Yeesh! I wouldn’t wanna fight _that_ guy in a dark alley, no sir. Hi Thor! I’m Deadpool! I’m Spidey’s main squeeze, if you know what I mean. I’m also Canadian, I like long walks on the beach, and your abs are almost as good as mine! I’ve always wanted to arm wrestle you. Wanna arm wrestle?”

Thor laughs again and flexes his arms, eyeing Deadpool’s abs. “I must say you talk a big talk, Deadpool. I think perhaps _your_ abs are almost as good as _mine_ –”

“Hm, no, I think –”

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Hawkeye bursts out from the couch. Peter tenses all over again. “Thor’s like a giant puppy, he’ll welcome anyone, but are we really gonna let this idiot stay?”

“Shut it birdbrain,” Deadpool says. “Unlike you and your not-so-super self, I’m here to be useful.”

Hawkeye flips him off. “I can’t wait to _usefully_ throw you at the aliens –”

 _Here we go_ , Peter thinks.

Captain America is giving his trademark Face of Disapproval, but it’s not directed at Hawkeye, and Peter has a feeling this could get ugly fast. Peter scowls through his mask and tries to beat him to the punch. He takes a step forward so that Deadpool’s just a hair behind him, sidles up to stand beside Thor. “Are you guys seriously going to turn down a great fighter with superpowers who’s saved my life more times than I can count when there’s an alien army on the way here to kill us all? Is that seriously what’s happening right now? Because we have way better things we could be doing –”

“ _Swoon_ ,” Deadpool sighs, sounding smitten.

Peter tries not to let that take the wind out of his anger sails. “– and this kind of interrupted a hot date, so.” He points to the elevator behind them, suggests, “We could just go?”

“A great foe looms on the horizon, Clint,” Thor says, warning in his voice. “We must stand united. Deadpool seems like a jovial companion to Spider-Man –”

“Ooh, I’m jovial!” Deadpool crows.

“Look big guy, I get that you’re not from around here, but Deadpool’s a hired gun. He’s done so much shady shit –”

“Let’s play nice, boys,” Black Widow says into the ensuing silence. Wanda snorts and shakes her head, arms crossed over her chest, mumbling something he’s glad he can’t hear. Peter can’t say he’s ever felt comfortable around the Scarlet Witch. Her powers lie under the surface even when she’s not using them. His senses don’t like it, his hairs always standing on end around her. Black Widow ignores the woman and stares hard at Hawkeye as she adds, “We’ve all done our fair share of killing. I’m pretty sure we could use all the help we can get at this point, and Deadpool’s right about one thing; he _can_ be useful.”

It sounds like she’s defending them, but Peter’s spidey sense is all over the place. Her words feel like a trap. He takes the smallest of shuffles closer to Deadpool, gets him as close as possible without calling attention to it. This whole thing feels like a bad idea. He’s never fully trusted the Avengers, and it turns out this was probably why. They don’t treat Deadpool right. Never have. He used to idolize Captain America, but he’s not sure he’ll ever see eye to eye with the man. He should never have brought his omega here like this, not to this room full of potential enemies, not with their combined disadvantages of Wade being in heat and Peter’s lack of webbing. He’d hoped that maybe Iron Man’s presence might make a difference. Silly to think, but Iron Man’s the one who called him. Called MJ who then called Peter, anyway, which means that Iron Man knows who Spider-Man is outside the suit. Knows he’s Peter Parker. None of the other Avengers know that, and it should make him nervous that one of them knows, now, especially since he’s not sure _how_ he knows, but –

“And here I thought _my_ presence would bring all the tension.”

Peter’s breath hitches at the mechanized voice. He turns to look at the Iron Man suit.

The suit’s been statue still this whole time.

But now, the faceplate lifts.

Tony Stark grins over at both him and Deadpool. He raises one gauntlet and flashes a peace sign. The gauntlet folds back to release his hand, which he uses to grab an amber drink off the bar he’s standing beside and bring it up to take a swallow. Ice cubes clink as he sets it back down. Peter’s gaping over at him, completely without words. He reaches blindly for Deadpool’s hand, grips it hard. Deadpool squeezes back. Iron Man’s boots clomp against the floor as he walks toward them, the whirr of his suit as it moves sounding loud in the silently tense room. Most of the Avengers have stiffened at his approach, even though he’s not even approaching them, though Thor simply steps aside as he nears. Peter can’t imagine why Captain America’s face suddenly looks so drawn, so despairing. Iron Man holds out his free hand with a quirked brow. Dumbly, Peter takes it.

He’s glad he’s wearing gloves because he’s sure his hand’s clammy.

“Iron Man!” he says. Also dumbly. “I’m – I’m Spider-Man.” He tries to stand taller.

“I know, squirt. Nice to meet you in person, finally. I’m a big fan.”

And – just – _what???_

“Of me?” Peter squeaks.

“What a coinkidink because Spidey’s a _huge_ fan of yours,” Deadpool says, nudging him in the shoulder. Peter shoots him an incredulous look, but it must not translate well from under the mask because Deadpool just keeps talking. Peter kind of wishes the floor would swallow him whole, but of course it doesn’t. He can only stand there with his hand in Iron Man’s as his chatty omega chirps a cheerful, “You ought to hear him jabber on and on about all the work you’re doing in clean energy. It really gets his motor revving, all that science shit. He reads all your articles and has this really bitching idea for some retro-reflective panels for the armor, some kinda stealth mode shit – anyway he’d tell it to you better than me, but like, you really need to get this guy in a lab because he’ll science the pants off you in an entirely nonliteral sense.”

Peter _could die_. Right here, right now.

But also – he’s maybe a little bit in love with Wade, who he didn’t even realize was listening so closely to his science rants. But mostly he could die from the embarrassment, oh God this is so bad –

“Yeah?” Tony Stark says, his voice way more interested than anything Peter was expecting. The billionaire pulls his hand away, Peter flushing down to his toes for holding on for so long, taking a few hasty steps back to return to a more socially accepted distance. “What’s your field, Spider-Man?”

“Um.” Peter gulps. “Biochemistry, mostly. But engineering and robotics are really interesting –”

“I think all this talk can wait, guys,” Captain America finally speaks up. He stands and walks over to them. Peter immediately notices the shift in Tony Stark’s face, the way his eyes harden, and he’s pretty sure _everybody_ notices the way his gauntlet shifts back over his hand and the faceplate slams shut at the Captain’s approach, those glowing blue robot eyes staring the man down. Captain America’s adams apple bobs, his jaw tight and shoulders back, when he says, “We should be talking about the incoming invasion. The only way we’ll win is if we turn this sorry group into a team, somehow, and strategize. You can stay, Deadpool, because you _are_ useful, but I expect you to limit your violence to the aliens.”

“No promises there.” Deadpool sticks his tongue out at the man, licking the inside of his mask to do it.

Iron Man’s voice has that mechanical lilt back when he says, “This _is_ a sorry group, you’re right about that, Cap. But you’re wrong in thinking you’re somehow the leader, here. I’m not going to listen to you, you’re not going to listen to me – I think the only thing we can do is split the group into smaller chunks of people who _can_ work together and divide and conquer.”

“This is an alien invasion,” Captain America insists. “We don’t have the luxury of letting our squabbles get in the –”

“Okay, let me stop you there.” Iron Man holds up a hand – like a gauntlet ready to fire, or like a warning. Hawkeye and the Scarlet Witch are immediately on the scene, coming up to stand next to Captain America. Black Widow’s suddenly the lone wolf on the couch. She props her feet up and folds her arms over her chest, watching from a distance. Iron Man’s robot face doesn’t move an inch in the direction of the supers beside Cap, those disconcerting eyes targeted straight at Cap. “None of this feels like a luxury, Rogers. I flew all the way here, I’m in this, I’m ready to fight the alien hoard, whatever it takes, _again_ , but the team needs to split. It’s not a petty thing, this is not me being a child, it’s not whatever’s written all over your pretty face right now.” Peter can see the judgement on Steve Roger’s face clear as day, about as clearly as he can hear the exhaustion in Iron Man’s voice, can feel the damage between the people in this group like a grim reaper hovering over them. Iron Man sighs, then, and says a hard, definitive, “I can’t fight with people I can’t trust. It’s that simple, and trying to force this is what’s gonna get us all killed. I’m not risking the world so you can prove we’re still a team. We’re _not_ still a team. If I can’t trust my teammates to have my back, I’m gonna make shit moves. I’m gonna mess up. I won’t make the right calls. So – we’re splitting. It’s done. We’ve got to split, or I’m telling you, Earth won’t stand a chance.”

You could cut the ensuing tension with a knife.

Deadpool – well, Deadpool likes knives.

“Do the kids get to choose which parent they wanna stay with?” he asks.

Everybody looks at him. From the couch, Black Widow rolls her eyes.

Deadpool blinks his mask eyes back at them. He grabs for Peter’s hand again, squeezing it, and says, “’Cuz Spidey and me, we wanna stay with Iron Daddy. Right, Spidey?”

“Um.”

Everybody’s looking at Peter, now, actually seeming to wait for an answer, for him to make a choice. And Peter’s worked with Captain America before. Captain America called him a hell of an asset, once upon a time. But Captain America also treats Wade like shit. He doesn’t know anything about how Iron Man will treat Wade, doesn’t know anything about how he and Iron Man would work together in the field, if they’d mesh as well as he’d meshed with the Captain during past fights. But Iron Man’s robotic face and glowing blue eyes are narrowed in on him. As he looks back at this group of people, Peter’s not sure anybody else is going to choose the metal man’s team, actually. Certainly not the Scarlet Witch or Hawkeye, probably not Black Widow, who’s so unconcerned about the whole drama. Thor might, maybe, but who knows. It feels like high school all over again, only instead of Peter getting picked last in every gym class ever, it’s suddenly Tony Stark in that position. It doesn’t sit right with Peter.

“Right,” Peter says. “Not that we’re kids, ‘Pool. And not that I’m calling you _Iron Daddy_ at any point, ever –”

“And thank God for that.”

“– but yeah, I’d love to fight beside you, Mr. Stark.”

“This plan actually sounds pretty good,” Hawkeye says. “Let’s do it. I’m on Cap’s team. Let the murderers work together.”

Peter’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean – he’s obviously calling Iron Man a murderer, along with Wade, but by Peter’s count, Iron Man’s only ever tried to save people. Sure, he was a weapons mogul back in the day, but that’s an idiotic reason to call somebody a murderer. For one thing, he inherited weapons manufacturing from his father. For another, Peter’s pretty sure the people using the weapons to kill people are the real murderers. Still, Hawkeye’s comment sounds too personal to be referring to Tony Stark’s past weapons production. It sounds – recent. Fresh. Peter’s not sure what to do with all this drama. He’s exhausted. Deadpool’s probably exhausted. He’s not sure when the aliens are coming, but if it’s soon, they’ve got way bigger things to prioritize.

He says as much to the group.

Iron Man claps him on the back. “Kid’s right –”

“Not a kid,” Peter mumbles.

“– so I vote we speed things along and get started. Deadpool and Spidey are with me, pretty sure Vision’s gonna want to work with Maximoff when he gets here. He’d be a good flyer for your group anyway. Bruce is just gonna smash, he’ll probably be all over the place. Thor, you wanna take point with us?”

“I’d be honored, Man of Iron,” Thor says, ever agreeable.

Captain America sighs, clearly agitated. “You say this isn’t you being childish, but from where I’m standing –”

“Give it up, Captain Underpants.” Deadpool claps his hands. “I totes love you, you’ve got some of the coolest comics, but you’re kind of a dick sometimes. The city’s big enough for all of us. I like Iron Daddy’s plan. Also, I still wanna arm wrestle, Thor. Might I suggest it as a healthy team building exercise?”

And that’s, well, that’s that. Captain America’s whole team seems annoyed by the whole thing, but everything gets a lot less tense when the teams go their separate ways. Black Widow joins the captain’s team without saying a word, her whole body language closed off, unreadable. It’s fine with Peter, whose spidey sense has a hard time relaxing around her, and he’s feeling pretty good about his team. He’d trust Wade with anything, for one, and Thor’s an assured, confident presence that seems to tolerate Deadpool better than most. The two hit it off, immediately trash talking each other as they start up an arm wrestle. Peter trails after Iron Man to the bar. As soon as the captain’s team disappears through the elevator to go do their own planning, the red and gold armor folds back and Tony Stark steps out completely. He’s shorter than Peter imagined, pretty much the same height as he is. Alphas are usually taller.

Peter relaxes even more.

“You know who I am,” he says it quietly while Mr. Stark pours them both a fresh drink.

“Course I do,” Mr. Stark says. “You have a very specific work schedule that doesn’t lend itself well to keeping a superhero secret identity.”

“Nobody else knows?”

“I won’t tell anybody, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, of course not. Just –” Peter fidgets with the drink Mr. Stark hands him, swirling it around in the glass. He takes a swig of it and, ooh, but it burns on the way down. He shudders at the taste, Mr. Stark grinning at him over his own drink, and says, “I don’t know, it’s weird that somebody else knows who I am.”

“I can’t say I know how that feels. _Everybody_ knows who I am.”

For all that the words sound pompous, the voice behind them sounds – bitter. Weary. Behind them, Deadpool yells in apparent outrage and demands, “Best two out of three!” Peter shakes his head, grinning, and says, “And do you know who Deadpool is?”

“Pretty sure everybody knows him, too.” Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow. “He’s a hell of a choice for a crime fighting buddy, by the way. How’d you swing that?”

“Deadpool’s a good guy,” Peter says. “He just needed somebody to believe in him. Give him a chance.” He changes the subject. Talking about Deadpool to people is – difficult. Like beating his head against the wall trying to convince people he’s good. It’s not Mr. Stark’s fault, but it’s an aggravating topic. Peter switches gears. “So what’s with the aliens, anyway? Do we know how long we’ve got? The city’s already being evacuated so we must not have too much time.”

“Thor couldn’t say. Honestly, they’ll probably show up at the worst possible moment.”

Considering the worst possible moment would be right now, that comment doesn’t make Peter feel very good about their chances. Mr. Stark goes on to explain the whole sorry ordeal, how Thor arrived shaken and somber, with news that his home planet had been attacked, how it’d been pretty much wiped out by some Mad Titan on an intergalactic quest to erase half of all life in the universe. Asgard, wiped out? A home full of people like Thor, warrior gods with super strength and long lives… _wiped out_? Peter’s bad feeling intensifies the more Iron Man speaks. The Mad Titan was collecting a bunch of powerful artifacts, unique stones that represented an aspect of the universe. If he gets his hands on all of them, he’ll be able to destroy everything all at once, everything and everybody. He’d already gotten his hands on at least three of them.

Thor didn’t know for sure if the Mad Titan knew where the last stones were, but Thor knew.

Two of them were on Earth.

Peter’s eyes are wide. His wrists ache. He kind of wants to throw up.

“How’re we going to protect those stones? Where are they?”

“Vision has one of them in his head. The Mind Stone. The other’s the Time Stone with a wizard named Dr. Strange, who’s currently hiding out in some mystical realm, away from all this mess. Hopefully he’ll stay there and stay unreachable. We just need to prioritize keeping Vision’s stone safely in his head where it belongs and killing the Mad Titan before he gets his paws on all the stones. And also contain the alien army, keep them in the city away from civilians. Should be a cake walk.”

“Right.” Peter’s voice sounds faint. He feels a little faint.

Mr. Stark sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Spider-Man must look – nervous. He’s just a little nervous, is all. This sounds serious. This is _way_ above his pay grade. “You gonna be all right, short stack?”

Peter swallows. “Now that you mention it… we’ve got a few problems.”

And Peter – he looks across the room at Deadpool and Thor. At Deadpool, specifically. He doesn’t want anybody to know he’s an omega. He didn’t even want Peter to know. But they’re running out of time, and he’s not sure how they’re going to possibly keep it a secret. Wade’s much better at hiding his heat than Peter would have ever expected, but it’s there all the same. It’s there in the leg Wade won’t stop bouncing, there in the uncomfortable shifting where he can’t sit still on the couch, there in every hitched breath that Peter can only pick up on because he’s looking for it. He’s not going to be able to fight alien hoards this way, let alone some Mad Titan with a bunch of mystical cosmic stones. They’re going to need to tell somebody. Figure something out.

Easy thing’s first.

Peter slides both gloves off and sets them on the bar beside his discarded drink. He pulls his sleeves up, shows Mr. Stark his damaged wrists. Mr. Stark’s eyes widen at the sight. It feels – weird. Showing somebody a weakness. Somebody new. His alpha absolutely balks at it. But if Peter’s going to ask Wade to reveal his vulnerability to the super group, then he’s got to do the same. His is way less problematic than Wade’s, but they’ve got to start somewhere.

A Mad Titan is coming.


End file.
